


Lion's Mane

by smalltrolven



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, M/M, Magic, Sam Has Powers, Switching, Time Travel, season 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 15:44:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4185552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smalltrolven/pseuds/smalltrolven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is inspired by the possibility of getting a do-over from the events in 10.12 “About A Boy.” Time travel to the not-too-distant past. A Cas-powered trip to Venice, Italy. Ambiguous Powers Sam. What can be changed, what should be changed, and what needs to change are three very different things, as Dean and Sam find out while they strive to find a balance that works for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not my characters, only my words. Written for the 2015 spn-j2bigbang, thank you to the wonderful wendy who's kept us all writing and arting together all these years. Title and opening lyric quote from a song titled _“Lion’s Mane,”_ by Iron  & Wine, which you should [absolutely listen to](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n9SmwC_ZX0I). Great thanks and choruses of adulation go to my splendid beta, amypond45 for her efforts in helping corral my love of excess commas.  Please go [check out](http://uh-tiramisu.livejournal.com/4656.html) the wonderful art that uh-tiramisu created to accompany the story.

 

*~ _Love is the best endeavor_

_Waiting in the lion's mane ~*_

 

That momentary temptation to just give up and stay a teenager, unburdened by the Mark, is something he can’t stop thinking about. Even when he’s not consciously chewing it over, it’s still there, getting into all of his unconscious musing. Practically the whole drive back towards the Bunker from Oregon he’s going over the possibilities he’d just given up without a thought. Being free of the Mark so easily like that. If only he could go back in time, have a do-over, just not back to being a teenager again, thanks. That would be too much to handle, having lived this life once already, and having to repeat that much of it, no thanks.

 

He remembers Sam’s face when he was telling him that he was glad ‘he’d pulled a Dean Winchester’, whatever the hell that means. Sam was likely just glad not to get stuck with a teenager to raise. Well, maybe it was more than that. Whatever. His easy way out of the Mark was nothing compared to saving Sam’s life. Not even a real hesitation in the moment. But now, thinking about the possibilities, he can imagine it. Of somehow having a chance to go back to an earlier time, before he’d made the Mother of All Bad Decisions. Have a do-over. Isn’t he kinda due one by the Universe or whatever by now?

 

Dean spends the next hundred miles or so going over and over that time when he’d gone off on his own and ended up taking on the Mark. He chastises himself for what must be the thousandth time for doing such a thing. Even Cain himself had tried to stop him, questioned why he’d do it without having the whole story. Like a fool, he’d gotten caught up in the moment, and Crowley’s flattery.  If only he could go back to that moment and pull himself aside for a little chat, or a whack upside the head. But there’s not an easy way out like that, not for him, not for something like this.

 

He looks over at Sam and marvels that he’s still here beside him in the car, on the job, having his back.

 

~~~

Sam feels something like a caress on the side of his face, then he notices Dean looking at him out of the corner of his eye. “Hey, eyes on the road, buddy,” he teases his brother.

 

Dean doesn’t say anything, just turns the music up and keeps his eyes forward.

 

Sam can see Dean’s messed up about something, though. He can see all the energy his brother is putting into thinking and trying to hide it. This is his m.o. when he doesn’t want Sam to ask, when he’s not done processing whatever the hell he’s obsessing about. So Sam does what he’s figured out works. He backs off from diving in with questions, he tries to keep his body language loose and open, just in case Dean wants to start talking. He also hides his disappointment that it doesn’t happen, because he can’t push Dean like he used to, not with the Mark in the way like it is these days. There’s so much left unsaid between them though, that it’s starting to feel insurmountable, a pile of crap that neither of them wants to deal with.

 

When they stop for the night, about half the distance in Evanston, Wyoming, Sam realizes there’s not a lot to say to each other that isn’t about the Mark, or the case, or this whole coven thing.  So he’s kind of relieved when they both choose to talk about the locals that they see in the diner instead. They play the ‘make-up-a-life-story-game’ a few times, until Dean’s got Sam in stitches trying to hold in the laughter. The waitress really does look like Linda Evans after she got in that fight with Joan Collins.

 

“I think that goes to show we’ve both watched way too much TV if we can remember anything that specific about a show like _Dynasty_ ,” Sam says, stealing the last fry from Dean’s plate.

 

Dean watches him nibble at the fry delicately, eyes riveted on Sam’s mouth and widening when Sam slowly licks the little dab of ketchup on his lower lip.  “I swear, Sammy, that show just needed to have witches on it, then it woulda been perfect.”

 

“You and your soap operas, man, I swear,” Sam teases.

 

Sam’s in such a good mood from their win on the case —well it feels like mostly a win to both of them— that he agrees to go to the bar before they head back to the room.  He’s content to lean up against the wall in their booth and watch Dean play pool for a while. He enjoys the hell out of seeing his brother stalking the other bar patrons like they’re his prey. _God that never stops being hot as hell._ Dean finally beckons him over once he’s beaten everyone else that’s taken a turn.

 

“C’mon, play ya for high stakes, winner tops tonight,” Dean whispers in his ear, with a wicked grin.

 

With a nod, Sam accepts, shrugging off his jacket and finishing the last of his beer in one long gulp.  He lets Dean break first, but then proceeds to annihilate him, ball by ball sinking into the pocket.

 

Dean shakes his head at his trouncing. “You are such a damn pool shark, I swear.”

 

“Don’t know why you always forget, unless you wanted me to win?” Sam teases, knowing that he’s mostly right.

 

“Cashing in already, huh?” Dean asks with a wink, raising his near-full glass of beer to his lips.

 

“You know it. Let’s go,” Sam says, taking the glass out of Dean’s hand, wrapping an arm around his waist and marching him out the door.

 

“Hey! I wasn’t done with that beer yet,” Dean protests.

 

“Too bad,” Sam says, keeping them moving back to the motel across the street.  He’s got them in the door and Dean pinned up against the wall before Dean can even think about taking off his jacket.

 

“All I had to do to get this was lose at pool, huh?” Dean snarks as they both toe out of their shoes.

 

“Nah, all you ever have to do is ask, you know that by now, or…do…that…ah, don’t stop,” Sam manages to say as Dean works his way into his jeans and takes hold of his cock in one hand. Perfect pressure, but there’s not enough room for Dean to move. He wants more, so he lets go of Dean momentarily, just long enough to slip his own jeans and boxers off. He’s unbuckling Dean’s jeans when Dean slides down the wall and is suddenly kneeling in front of him.

 

When Dean starts nuzzling into the skin at the crease of his hip, Sam can’t help the groan that escapes. He pushes forward to lean a hand against the wall, looming over Dean below him. He looks so small, reminds him of earlier today, when Dean was suddenly so damn young.

 

“So hot, Dean, seeing you like that,” Sam finally says when he can find the words.

 

Dean raises his eyebrows in surprise and laughs around Sam’s cock. He pulls off just long enough to ask, “Like what?”

 

“Like you used to be, when I first, you know,” Sam says in a halting voice that doesn’t sound like him. It sounds like his preteen voice, squeaky and unsure, struggling to hide the sick, constant curl of desire he’d always wished would go away.

 

Dean slowly keeps jacking him, hand gliding up and down in that mind-blowing slick slide that Sam can never say no to.  “What, me being a teenager did it for ya?”

 

Sam reaches down and gathers Dean up into his arms, holding him close. “Not exactly, just reminded me of how it all was, for me, back then. When I finally figured it out,” Sam says, kissing him deeply and thoroughly.

 

“Figured what out?” Dean gasps, as Sam releases him from that mind-blowing kiss. Sam’s got him out of his jeans and boxers before Dean can ask anything else.

 

“That I wanted you,” Sam says, hoisting Dean up and against the wall, Dean’s legs automatically going around his hips.  He attacks Dean’s neck with a teenage ferocity, sloppy and wild, with too much teeth.

 

“Dude, I was like sixteen or something!” Dean protests, head against the wall and neck stretched out so Sam can access all of it.  He writhes in Sam’s grasp, moaning at the delicious friction of their bodies together.

 

Sam presses him into the wall, holding him still, with his hands above his head, held in one of Sam’s big hands. Sam gentles his attack on Dean’s neck and speaks quietly near his ear. “Yeah, I know, and I was twelve, and you were perfect and everything I wanted, right there in front of me, and not something I could ever have.”

 

Dean grins at the confession and imagines his little brother way back then. “Hmmm, but now you get to have me, all of me.”

 

“I know. Lucky lucky me,” Sam chortles under his breath as he begins to work Dean open with spit slicked fingers.

 

“Glad that worked …uh… out for you, uh…eventually,” Dean says between gasps of pleasure.

 

Sam stops with three of his fingers pulling Dean open wide. “You always said I was a patient little shit, right?”

 

“Yeah, patient, or stubborn, take your pick, just c’mon, fuckin’ fuck me already,” Dean demands, wriggling down onto Sam’s fingers. “Quit teasin’.”

 

“I’m gonna pick both. But now, I’m just thankful. That you saved me and that you came back to me today. I’m sorry you didn’t get to stay that way. Without the Mark,” Sam says all that as he carries Dean over to the bed, dropping him down from a great height so that he bounces. Dean sprawls and almost squawks until he sees Sam diving for the lube in his bag.  He spreads his legs wide open for Sam to kneel between.

 

“It wasn’t the way to go. We both know that,” Dean says, eyes watching Sam’s face, as he warms up the lube in his hands.

 

Sam doesn’t say anything at first, just slicks himself and Dean just enough, and slides inside, coming back home again. He looks down into his brother’s face, and sees it all there, everything Dean never says. Almost every time he bottoms, Dean is like an open book, unable to keep it concealed.  It’s very clear, he’s just as scared, just as desperate as Sam is.

 

“Like I said in the car, we’ll figure it out; you know we will, because we have to,” Sam says with a sudden desperation that slips out and colors everything. He can’t keep it together anymore. The worry and fear, the leftover anger and loss— it’s all too much to keep hidden. He finally lets go of the control he was barely holding onto and fucks into Dean in an uncoordinated rhythm. He pounds into him over and over, chanting the words to himself, _itcan’thaveyouyou’remine_ over and over until they slur together into one long lament and promise.

 

Dean is too busy coming his brains out to hear, but definitely noticed something different about tonight.  “You okay, Sammy?” he asks once they’ve stopped moving and shuddering together, twined together into a beautiful sweat-slicked mess.

 

Sam flinches and looks up suddenly, his eyes flash with fear at hearing the nickname before he can stop himself, but then he shuts down, knowing he’s already shown too much.  He finds he can’t say anything, not even a fakey ‘sure I’m fine,’ he just can’t make himself do it.

 

Dean wraps his arms around Sam and holds him tight enough to hurt.  “We will. We’ll figure it out, I know you’re right.”

 

Sam doesn’t answer, he can’t without blowing up or crying or otherwise ruining what’s been a pretty damned good day, considering.  He just gets up and cleans himself up in the bathroom, brings back a warm washcloth to rub Dean down with, turns off the lights and slides into bed.  He lets himself get pulled into the circle of Dean’s arms, though, he’ll let himself do that much.

 

~~~

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

~~~

 

First thing Dean does when they get back home from the wicked witch’s non-gingerbread house, he prays to Castiel to come see him.  Castiel calls him instead.  With some excuse about visiting Claire, who the hell even knows. He quickly explains his temporary teenager state and what it had made him think of to be able to possibly make a different choice about the Mark.

 

“You gotta send me back, Cas. To that night at the church where we holding Crowley. For a do-over.”

 

“I cannot. I am sorry, Dean. The temporary grace I am using isn’t holding up well enough to provide enough power to get you there and back again. I fear that I am not reliable enough.”

 

“That’s okay. Thanks, buddy,” Dean says, disappointed that he can’t handle this easily like he was hoping to.

 

“I do question whether that is something you ought to do without consulting Sam first. He would want to know that you are attempting to time travel and change the past.”

 

Dean rolls his eyes and then scowls at Castiel’s unsolicited advice. “Sam’s working his angles on solving this, I’m working mine.”

 

“Also, I do not think that traveling to that specific time, you will be able to change anything of much importance. There has been too much chaos since that night when my brothers and sisters fell from Heaven. It would be unlikely that The Fates would allow such a change.”

 

“So, uh, then I guess I need to find another spot to go to, that doesn’t affect too many other things. This is kinda like that Titanic thing you showed us a while ago, isn’t it?”

 

“Yes, that is exactly right. Fate will only allow so much leeway, so many alterations, and I no longer have the power to push through and hold such a change.”

 

“Well, thanks for the help,” Dean says in the most insincere voice he can come up with.

 

“You are welcome, although I did not truly help you. It was still nice to get to talk with you. Where is Sam?”

 

“Out running, I think. Hey, uh listen, I gotta hit the books here.”

 

“Are you asking me to hang up?”

 

“Yeah. Thanks, Cas,” Dean says, feeling a little bad that he’s rushing his friend off the phone.

 

“Tell Sam that I said hello,” Castiel says with a little sigh before he hangs up.

 

Without the go-to time travel help he’d expected from his angel friend being a viable possibility, there still must be another way to do this himself. He’s got the example of his grandfather doing it at least once, coming through that closet door from the past and surprising the hell out of them. The how-to’s have got to be written down in the records somewhere in this freakin’ place, the Men of Letters seem to have pretty much kept every damn piece of paper they ever came across. He wishes he could just ask Sam for help in finding it, he’d probably be able to put his hands on the right book or scroll or whatever. But he can’t; this is on him.

 

Dean spends a lot of time researching. Sam of course, assumes he’s looking for Mark of Cain stuff, but he’s got it narrowed down now. The goal he’s shooting for now, it’s not just about the Mark, he’s really looking for a spell in all of this Men of Letters lore that will give him the opportunity to go back to a very specific time.   Before he had the Mark on his arm. He even finds the spell that Henry had used, but it turns out it was keyed to going to your offspring and also wouldn’t work with going to a time where he himself already is (or was).  So it takes a lot longer than he’d hoped, but that feeling of freedom, that little taste of not having the constant ache of this thing on his arm keeps him going. That and Sam’s encouraging glances while he powers through file after file of dusty paper.

 

His working idea is that he’ll take the opportunity to go back to the first time he should have told Sam about Gadreel/Ezekiel being inside of him. Because Cas was probably right that if he goes back before the angels fell it would be too big of a change for the universe to deal with. Cain and Abaddon and Crowley can deal with themselves for all he cares. Things are too screwed up with Sam, and it all goes back to that first day, sitting on the picnic table with his brother at that rest stop, before that first lie comes out of his mouth. Give Sam the chance to object. To change his mind.

 

The decision Sam made when they were in his mind was based on trusting that Dean had a plan. But Gadreel changed that plan on him when he informed Dean that they couldn’t tell Sam about the possession.  All those months of lying and for what?  Surely if he gave Sam a clue about it somehow he’d be able to forgive him easier. Surely he wouldn’t decide to kick Gadreel out right away, he’d let him stay in there and fix him. Gadreel was just wrong, Sam wanted to live, but he wanted to do it on his own terms, with all the information. It’s a risk, but it’s one he’s willing to take; living with his guilt standing between them is going to break them apart eventually.

 

Somehow going against the angel, sticking with Sam no matter what, and not falling into Crowley’s machinations about him taking on the Mark of Cain, that’s the new plan. Abaddon vs. Cain would have been a better fight anyway. It all seems like it would be upside. No Mark on his arm, no brother that can never trust him again, no having been a demon and whatever that mess put Sam through. All of it erased if he can go back and do it just a little differently.

 

The spell he finally finds in one of the last manuscripts left to search through, is called Lion’s Mane and it involves using the hair from the mane of a winged lion. At first he thinks it’s some mythical creature he’s got to go on a quest and hunt down. But it turns out that the winged lion that the spell refers to, is actually just a statue. A specific one, made of bronze, in Venice. As in, not the one in sunny California, because that would be too easy. Nope, the one all the way the hell over in Europe.

 

So wait, what? A piece of bronze lion hair? And in Venice, Italy? Sam is not going to understand him all of a sudden wanting to fly to Venice for a trip, by himself. Especially the flying part. And the alone part since Sam’s always wanted to go to Venice ** _with_** him. And how the hell is he supposed to slice off a piece of a bronze statue? Probably one that’s hard to get to. He looks it up. Yep, of course, it’s set way up on a tall column, right at the edge of one of the main squares in Venice. Luckily he knows someone that will probably help him. Castiel.

 

The angel arrives in the usual quick flurry of feathers, and tilts his head in that taking-on-information way that’s always so funny to see. “Yes, Dean. I am able to take you to Venice. But I will again advise you that having a conversation with Sam is preferable to all this subterfuge.”

 

“What, you think I ought to just come clean with Sam, apologize, and it’ll all be okay? Nah, that’s not us, you know that. Listen, I’m willing to take this chance that I can fix things with Sam and also avoid taking on the Mark in the first place. I know that if I tell Sam what I’m up to, he’ll just talk me out of even trying to go back and change things. And there’s no solution out there for the Mark, there just plain isn’t, you know it and I know it that deep down this is not something we can fix.”

 

“Dean, your brother…he needs some honesty from you. Changing the past will not erase what has happened between the two of you this past year or so. What is it you say? Man up and talk to him.”

 

“I promise I will, when we get back from Venice and I try this spell,” Dean says, laying a hand over his own heart like he’s making a sacred promise.  It’s unclear whether Castiel believes him or not.

 

“Where is Sam?”

 

“Yeah, what time is it? Almost eight. So he’s out runnin’. Again. I swear that kid is gonna be runnin’ marathons pretty soon, the way he’s trainin’,” Dean says, turning his attention back to the manuscript that he’d found the spell written in.

 

Castiel doesn’t say anything but texts a message to Sam while Dean isn’t paying attention to him:

 

 

Sam arrives back to the Bunker, dripping wet with sweat. He winks at Cas over Dean’s head because Dean hasn’t noticed him coming in, immersed in reading as he is. Sam sneaks up behind him and wraps him in his sweaty arms. Dean doesn’t react well, pushing Sam away and telling him he stinks and to go clean up so they can eat a late dinner.  Sam stalks off to take a shower and is then rather surprised to find himself in the middle of St. Mark’s Square, all wet and soaped up. And, of course, quite naked.

 

Sam was transported along with Dean because Cas “forgot” to only bring Dean. That’s what he tells Dean anyway, leaving out the part about promising Sam not to go anywhere without him. Unfortunately, Dean had insisted they leave just a few minutes after Sam had left the room, because Dean was shooting for arriving at 3am, Venice time. Which is 8pm Lebanon, Kansas time. Dean had figured to use Sam’s usual evening shower time, because he wouldn’t notice his absence.  Sam had been taking longer and longer showers after all the epic training runs.

 

Sam is a small distance away from them, naked, dripping wet, shampoo clouding his eyes in the middle of St. Mark’s Square. Needless to say, that took the stealth part of the operation right down to zero. Cas quickly lends Sam his overcoat, Dean swipes at Sam’s eyes with his pocket bandana and tries not to laugh.

 

“What the hell, Cas?” Sam sputters, wiping the soap suds off of his mouth.

 

“You said not to go anywhere without you. I am sorry, Sam.”

 

“You ratted me out, huh, Cas?” Dean asks.

 

“Ratted you out? He’s just trying to help us. Cut it out, Dean,” Sam says, hitting Dean on the shoulder.  “And how about you tell me what the hell we’re doing in Venice? And why you wanted to come here without me knowing?”

 

Dean looks up at his brother, angry as a proverbial wet hen, dripping hair flopping into his eyes, wrapped up in their friend’s overcoat. Sam’s got his arms crossed and one eyebrow raised expectantly. Dean sighs. “It’s for a spell. I need something from here.”

 

“This about the Mark?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And you didn’t want to tell me in case it what, didn't work or something?”

 

“Yeah. Didn’t wanna get your hopes up. You’ve been workin’ so hard on this for me,” Dean lies.

 

Sam sees his brother lie; it’s so clear that he’s leaving something important out. But there’s a reason, there always is, and he’ll get it out of him at some point. Hopefully before he does anything rash or foolhardy. Who’s he kidding? That’s like Dean’s reason for living. “Fine. I know you’re not telling me everything, and you’re going to, when we get home, okay?”

 

“Yeah, okay, Sammy,” Dean says, standing on tiptoes to kiss the side of Sam’s lips that are held in a stiff, disapproving straight line.  He feels Sam flinch, but doesn’t say anything as he’s too thankful that Sam’s letting this go for now.

 

Once Sam has calmed down from the shock of being transported when he wasn’t expecting it, and naked at that, he is surprisingly helpful. He boosts Dean onto his shoulders as Cas holds all the onlookers back with an angel-hand-of-doom freezing spell.

 

Dean clambers up, standing on his tiptoes on Sam’s shoulders, stretching up with the angel sword to easily carve a piece of the lion’s mane off. “Look at that, cuts through it like buttah! These things sure have come in handy, huh, Sammy?” Dean laughs as he’s clambering back down both the statue and Sam.  Sam holds him steady and lowers him almost to the ground, all pressed up against him and the column. Sam gets a funny look on his face as he holds onto all of Dean, before he lets his feet actually touch the paving stones. Dean looks up at him and grins, pressing their lips together quickly. “Thanks for the lift.”

 

By the time they’re done, the sun is well up and many people are being held back in the angel spell.  The boys arrange themselves far away from the column, and the now-scarred Lion, at the edge of the rows of tables set up in front of the famous Caffè Florian. Cas waves his hand and the people who had been temporarily frozen begin moving again.

 

“Should we at least get a cappuccino since we’re here?” Castiel asks rather wistfully, pointing at the array of cafes that are open at this early hour. “I’ve heard they’re worth the trip.”

 

“You guys go do that. I’m gonna…uh… go get myself some clothes someplace. I’ll be right back,” Sam says, beating a hasty retreat to the twinkling lights coming on in some of the nearby shops at the edge of the square.

 

Dean watches Sam leave, holding the trench coat closed even though it’s already buttoned. He nods at Castiel, and starts walking towards one of the closest tables and folds himself down into one of the teeny cafe chairs.  Castiel joins him at the small table and looks around for a waiter.

 

The waiter comes and asks them in rapid-fire Italian for their order.  Cas answers in a similar rapid perfect Italian and orders two cappuccinos as well as the local sweet pastry. Dean’s looking a little out of it.

 

“You speak Italian? Of course you do,” Dean says, feeling a little weary after all the climbing and angel travel.

 

“I speak all languages,” Castiel answers. “You are tired, Dean.”

 

“Master of the obvious, of course you do. Yeah, Cas, I’m tired. It’s been a long night, and you know how angel travel always gets to me,” Dean answers, head in his hands.

 

The waiter brings their cappuccinos on a tray and serves them with an elegant and speedy flourish.

 

“Do you not like cappuccino, Dean?” Castiel asks, while he adds three or four heaping spoonfuls of sugar to his.

 

“I usually leave the girly drinks to Sam, just take it black, but when in Rome…or…Venice, I guess,” Dean says, picking up the small cup and ostentatiously sticking his pinky finger out. He drains half of the cup and smacks his lips.  “That’s pretty damn good, actually.”

 

Castiel doesn’t answer, he seems to have been transported partway back to heaven as he drinks his own cup down slowly.  Dean doesn’t bother him, just sneaks half of his pastry which Castiel won’t really eat, this almond stuff is really tasty and shouldn’t go to waste.

 

Finally Castiel comes back to himself and blinks a few times. “That was unexpected,” he finally says.

 

“What, you getting knocked out by Italian coffee?” Dean asks.

 

“Yes, I did not think human foods could ever affect me,” Castiel says, a little wonder in his voice.

 

“Maybe it’s from having been human, or not having your own grace or whatever,” Dean says, a little disinterestedly. Castiel’s ongoing angel problems have never been much of his concern while he’s been trying to keep he and his brother alive.  “So, you think this spell thing will work?”

 

“I do think it has a chance, that is why I decided to use part of my energy to bring you here,” Castiel answers.  “Do you think that Sam will forgive me?”

 

“For what? Bringing him here out of his shower? Yeah, I’m sure he’s over it already,” Dean answers.

 

“No, I was referring to deceiving him about what the spell you are undertaking is actually designed to accomplish,” Castiel says, looking at Dean with his serious-angel-business face.

 

“Is this where you tell me, again, that I need to come clean with him for the millionth time?” Dean asks in pre-emptive disgust.

 

“No, Dean, this is where I express how disappointed I am that you lied to your brother for…what is your phrase?…the millionth time,” Castiel says in matching disdain.

 

“Get off my case. I’m putting things right, you know that’s what I’m doing here,” Dean says.

 

“What you are doing is starting out on a lie, Dean. Again. And that never goes well for you,” Castiel answers.  “I know you can do this differently; you are choosing not to for some reason.”

 

Dean doesn’t say anything, just finishes his coffee and stares across the square at the top of the Basilica.  He hears Castiel sigh in what sounds like an exact imitation of Sam’s put-upon I’m-dealing-with-Dean’s-shit sigh. Dean closes his eyes and rubs at the Mark on his forearm.

 

“Is it bothering you? Or do you feel the need to kill something?” Castiel asks.

 

Dean feels himself wanting to growl, or stab something with the pointy end of the precious little cappuccino spoons on the table, like maybe Castiel’s eyes.  But what would be the use? He’d just fix himself instantly.  “No. Just a habit,” Dean lies.

 

“I am here if you need to talk about it, Dean,” Castiel offers.

 

“There’s nothing to talk about. It sucks. I want it gone. End of story,” Dean says in a voice that he hopes ends Castiel’s painful attempts at helpful conversation.

 

Sam comes back, dressed in gorgeous Italian designer clothes, down to the shiny, leather loafers. “What story?”

 

“What the hell was open this early and where did you get the money to pay for all that?” Dean asks, eyeing his brother’s finely clothed form appreciatively.

 

“Gucci was just opening up, so I used the credit card that was in Cas’ coat pocket,” Sam says, a twinkle of a smile he’s holding back in his eyes. He hands Castiel his overcoat back.

 

“That seems like just payment for my deception, Sam. You look very fine,” Castiel says with a small smile.

 

“So, uh, if you guys wouldn’t mind. I’d like to look around, while we’re here. Just for a few hours,” Sam asks.

 

Dean grins up at him, knowing what Sam’s talking about, his long-held obsession and passion for Venice. He’d always promised he’d take Sam here someday, ride on a gondola, do all that touristy stuff. And here they are. “Hey, why the hell not? Given how Cas here just responded to his coffee, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t mind sitting here drinking them down all day. Might give you enough juice to bring us back, huh big guy?”

 

Castiel looks over at Dean and frowns. “Big guy? I am the smallest of the three of us. And no, additional caffeine will not increase my power to transport us.”

 

“Do you want to come with us, Cas, or stay here and try out more of the coffee?” Sam asks with a smile.  Sometimes the food molecules do it for his friend; maybe this is one of those times.

 

“Yes, Sam, that is what I will do. I will wait for you two to be done right here,” Castiel answers, signaling the waiter.

 

“That’s our cue, Sammy, let’s go,” Dean says, hopping up from the small chair, almost knocking it over. He misses Sam’s flinch at his nickname in the rush to catch the chair from falling.

 

They walk off towards the Basilica, with Sam talking rapidly about all the things he wants to do, has always wanted to do, and they’re finally here together and it’s amazing.  Dean grins at his brother’s enthusiasm, because it’s pretty much the most adorable thing about him. And he’s just happy that he didn’t have to endure a plane flight to finally give Sam something he’s always wanted.

 

“All I know is, when we’re riding in a gondola, we’re making out,” Dean says.

 

“Got it, no problem. But first, let’s go in the Basilica, okay?” Sam answer distractedly, hurrying Dean up the nearby steps.

 

~~~

 

A few days pass after they’re back from Venice, and Sam still hasn’t stopped talking about their visit to the city. It’s starting to get annoying, but Dean’s concentrating on assembling the ingredients to do the spell. That and narrowing down the choice of where in time he wants to go back to. He goes back and forth about when would be best; he tries to remember where all the big decision points seemed to be. Ones that won’t be noticed by Fate or whatever force it was that didn’t let them change anything the other times they went back in time. He’s got hope that it will work, because this whole Mark thing wasn’t some big plan of Heaven’s (as far as he knows). And he remembers that the phoenix ash and Sam’s phone made it back to them in the present from their actions in the past. That’s what he’s counting on, that changes can be made.

 

He swears to himself that not being honest with Sam about why he’s going back to the past is his only choice. Dean knows that Sam’s suspicious, and tries different tactics to get away with saying he’s just going to go back to when he took on the Mark, and make a different choice over and over again. No matter how many times Sam questions him about it. Finally it comes down to the day he’s going to try the spell. Everything is set, but Sam finds him in his room before he can get started.

 

“You were going to do this without me?” Sam asks, as he fills Dean’s doorway in a sudden rush, sounding like he’s close to going into a full-on panic.

 

“I’m only going back to where I decided to take on the Mark, that’s what we’ve been trying to do, right? Get rid of this thing? And we haven’t found anything else, Sam. Not a damn thing. I’ve got to try this, before I get worse.”

 

“I get what you’re trying to do, Dean, I do. But this seems like something big that can’t just be undone like that. Isn’t that what Cas said?”

 

“Maybe so. But it’s worth a try. You know I’ve got to at least try. I need to do something about this.”

 

“But you’re leaving me, Dean. I’ll never see this you again. Some other me, in some other timeline you’re going to create will get the un-Marked you back.”

 

“No, Sammy. I’ll always come back to you.”

 

Sam flinches, and Dean doesn’t know why, doesn’t ask because he’s too preoccupied with getting the show on the road. He just squeezes Sam’s shoulder as he passes by on the way to the dungeon where all the stuff for the spell is laid out.

 

“Can I at least be there when you do it, in case something goes wrong?” Sam asks from the doorway, almost too quietly to be heard.

 

“Yeah, if you wanna, of course,” Dean says, slowing his steps so Sam can catch up.

 

“Tell me, the me back then, tell me I said to ‘cut it out and deal’,” Sam says as they walk down the hallway, past the spot Dean had to repair, past the door that doesn’t match all the others. Sam flinches at the memory, and Dean feels it deep down then, the why of his brother’s flinching at his nickname. He hears his demon voice calling it down the echoing hallway, taunting, almost flirtatious. But Sam interrupts his thoughts.

 

“It’ll make me listen, hopefully that will help you fix things.”

 

Dean nods in silent thanks as they pass through the moving file shelves into the dungeon.  He picks up the small shard of Lion’s Mane and pricks himself with the sharp tip. “Hey, at least I finally took you to Venice, huh?”

 

“Yeah, at least. Not quite the way I wanted to arrive, but I got some good clothes out of the trip,” Sam answers with a forced laugh.

 

“Bye Sam, I’ll be back,” Dean says in his best Arnold Schwarzenegger as Terminator imitation voice.

 

“I’ll be here,” Sam says in an even better imitation.

 

“How come your Arnold is so much better than mine?” Dean asks, as he strikes the match that will begin the spell.

 

“I’ll tell you when you get home,” Sam says, a small smile on his face as he works so hard to hold back his fear.

 

“It’s gonna be okay, I will come home, I swear,” Dean says, meaning it with every cell in his body.

 

Sam nods, either because he can’t speak or he’ll cry, or because he’ll tell Dean to stop. Either way, Dean’s going, because he’s got to, there is no other choice.  He focuses on Sam’s face and drops the lit match into the consecrated bowl.

 

When he adds the Lion’s Mane and his blood to the burning pile of herbs, everything goes white and gold, all sound goes away for a long stretched-out pause, his stomach sinks and rebounds as he lands inside himself, laying on his back on top of a picnic table. He shakes his head and looks up at Sam, sitting beside him, talking like there’s nothing wrong except fallen angels, and the King of Hell in the trunk of the Impala. Sam looks so damn peaceful, unknowing that there’s an angel inside of him. Innocent of the knowledge of what his brother has done to him.

 

Dean sits up abruptly and interrupts Sam’s question about the fall of the angels. “Sammy, I have to tell you what happened. In the hospital, you almost…” Dean says all in a rush. His heart sinks when he sees the too-familiar flash of blue in Sam’s eyes.  Sam sits up straighter and turns his head a little robotically to face Dean.

 

“Dean, what are you doing?” GadreelSam asks.

 

“I’m coming clean with him, like I should have,” Dean says, instantly regretting his choice of word tense.

 

GadreelSam leans closer to Dean, sniffs and considers. “You are not from this time, you are from the future.”

 

“Yeah, I am, and I came back to put things right,” Dean says. “Give me back my brother, wouldja? I need to talk to him about a few things.”

 

“Dean, I informed you of the risk already. Sam’s hold on life is precarious, if he ejects me this soon, he will die, in terrible pain.”

 

“I got that, yeah, thanks. But he needs to know. I can’t lie to him like this, it’s not right, I knew it wasn’t, but I let you talk me into it last time, and I won’t this time.”

 

“Dean, go back to your time. Let things unfold as they already have,” GadreelSam says in that ponderous tone.

 

“No, I went through a lot to get here. And I need to make it right with Sam, right here, right now. You let me talk to him, Gadreel, now.”

 

“You know my true name?” GadreelSam asks in slow surprise.

 

“Yeah, I do, I know your whole damn story and how it ends, you blown up in Heaven’s jail, having killed a whole lot of your brothers and sisters, and God’s last prophet too.  Let me fix it, Gadreel, please.”

 

“If I die in Heaven’s jail, then that is what my Father must want, I will not allow you to change this timeline, Dean, go back to the future where you belong,” GadreelSam answers.

 

“I’m begging you, Gadreel, please. I end up turning into a goddamn demon with this on my arm,” Dean says in desperation, wrenching up his sleeve and showing the Mark of Cain to the angel in his brother’s body.

 

GadreelSam’s eyes widen in surprise. “That is the Mark of Cain, is it not?”

 

“Yeah. And because of where things go from here on out, I convince myself that it’s an awesome idea to take it on from Cain. So could you please just let me talk to Sam?”

 

“No. I will not. That mark can only pass to one who is worthy. Thus, it was meant to be, Dean. I cannot go against Heaven’s will in this. Go back, Dean,” GadreelSam says with ponderous finality, reaching out with one of Sam’s giant hands and pressing it against Dean’s forehead.

 

Dean tries to jump back from the angel’s touch, but it’s too late, everything goes white and then gold, and then he’s back in the dungeon with his stomach feeling like it’s still in the past.

 

~~~~

 


	3. Chapter 3

~~~

He realizes he’s lying on the dungeon floor, crumpled in a heap, his head cradled in Sam’s lap.  He blinks his eyes open warily. “So, uh, I guess I’m back. Anything change?”

 

Sam smiles down at him a little sadly and shakes his head. “No, not that I know of, nothing feels different, but I haven’t left the room. You weren’t gone very long, you just kinda crumpled up and I caught you. So, what happened?”

 

“It didn’t work. He wouldn’t let me,” Dean starts, and then stops himself.

 

“Cain wouldn’t let you what? Not take the Mark?” Sam asks, running his fingers through Dean’s short hair near the back of his neck in a sort of worried gesture.

 

“No, uh, it wasn’t Cain. I, uh, went back to talk to you,” Dean says, enjoying the unconscious touch of Sam’s hands on his head, the delicious feeling of Sam’s fingernails gently scratching his scalp as he thinks through Dean’s deceptions.

 

“Wait a second, you said you were going back there, to the past, to not take on the Mark. Why would you be talking to me? I wasn’t even there. I don’t get it, Dean,” Sam says, his hands stopping the gentle scratching and turning into a vise so that Dean can’t look away. Dean closes his eyes against Sam’s intensity. “What aren’t you telling me?”

 

“I went back to do more than just not take on the Mark. I was trying to fix things with you, Sammy,” Dean says, eyes opening when he feels his brother’s full body flinch. Sam lets go of his head and pushes him roughly into a seated position and scrambles up to standing like he needs to get away from him, fast. Dean decides to stay on the ground, farther away from the anger building in Sam’s face.

 

“You thought you could just go back and what? Clean everything up? Make it like it never even happened? Do you not get how fucked-up that is?” Sam yells. “This is as bad as you mind-wiping Lisa and Ben!”

 

It’s Dean’s turn to flinch at the blast of righteous fury sailing down at him from his brother. He gives himself the time to stand up and face Sam. “That’s not what I was trying to do. Not at all.”

 

“Then what? What could possibly have been so damn important you’d skip over the whole Cain thing?” Sam asks, just short of yelling, gesturing angrily with his hands.

 

Dean steps back and leans against the cool dampness of the dungeon’s wall. “I wanted to make sure you knew that Gadreel was in you. But he wouldn’t let me tell you. I couldn’t change it, Sammy, I couldn’t make it right,” Dean says, heart sinking when he sees Sam’s flinch when he calls him Sammy.

 

“ _That’s_ what you think I wanted? No. God, Dean, I understood all that and why you did it. Of course I did. I was just stuck on forgiving you for leaving me,” Sam admits.

 

“When the hell did I ever leave you?” Dean asks in genuine confusion.

 

“Don’t you remember? We had that argument, after the whole Crowley in my head thing, Gadreel was finally gone after I kicked him out.  You left me, Dean,”

 

“I didn’t think you were safe around me. Because of what I’d done to you,” Dean says, knowing that he’s lying to himself even more than he is to Sam.

 

Sam’s eyes flare up in anger. “Bullshit. You were scared. You ran away because you thought I’d be too mad to forgive you. You didn’t even give me the chance though, did you? You just left without a look back to see if I was all right. I’d just had fucking needles in my brain, a demon, an angel, a friend dead at my hands. All of that. You left me, Dean. Right when I needed you most.”

 

“ _That’s_ what you couldn’t forgive me for?”

 

“Yeah,” Sam answers in a flat voice that sounds angry and tired and just about done. “You never even apologized for leaving me like that. It was like it didn’t even matter to you.”

 

Dean thinks about it for a long moment and then hits himself in the forehead. “That’s what I should have gone back and tried to change. I went back too far.”

 

“Wait, hold on. Too far? How far back did you go?” Sam asks.

 

“I, uh, I went back to that first day you were out of the hospital after the Trials. We were at a rest stop talking about how Crowley was in the Impala’s trunk. And right then, I wanted so bad to tell you the truth. But Gadreel had just told me I shouldn’t, that you’d kick him out, and you’d instantly die because you were so weak. So I’d stopped myself. I went back there, and I tried to tell you. But he didn’t let me even get two words out. He just did the blue eye flashy thing and you were gone. He told me to go back to my time and let things go according to how they’d already occurred.”

 

“I don’t understand. Why did you go there? Wasn’t this time traveling thing mostly about the Mark? When were you going to try and deal with that?” Sam asks, in a machine gun question style that means he’s going to want every question answered. And now.

 

“It was and it wasn’t. It was mostly about you. And I thought that if I was honest with you, right from the start, that it would fix things with you.”

 

Sam interrupts his silence, “And then you wouldn’t have left and gotten mixed up with Crowley? Taken on the Mark?”

 

Dean drops his head and nods. “Yeah, something like that.”

 

“Wait, Dean. Was that what you felt guiltiest about? Is that why you went there instead of to Cain?”

 

Dean nods and remains silent for a few long moments. “I really had wanted to go back to that night in the church, when I stopped you doing the third trial. But Cas said it would change too much stuff with the angels falling and all.”

 

“Yeah, he was probably right about that. But, why would you have wanted to go there?” Sam asks.

 

“To do it differently. To tell you what would happen. To give you the choice,” Dean answers.

 

“You thought I’d have rather died closing the gates of Hell?”

 

“I really didn’t know what you’d pick, Sam. I just wanted you to have all the information when you decided. It wasn’t fair of me to just waltz in there and order you to stop like I did. I mean, we both knew when you started the Trials what the end game was gonna be.”

 

“Yeah, that’s why you wanted to be the one to do them in the first place, remember?”

 

“I do. I remember your whole light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel speech and everything, dude. Sammy, I just wanted you to have the choice, that’s all,” Dean says.

 

Sam can’t seem to speak or respond, for a long moment Dean is sure his brother is about to burst out in bawling, messy tears. Finally, Sam visibly calms himself, takes a deep breath and fixes Dean with slightly watery eyes.

 

“Thank you,” Sam finally manages to say, wrapping Dean up in those octopus arms (and one leg) of his. The hug goes on much longer than usual, unless that is someone is dying of course.

 

“It just seemed like the right thing to do, the only thing I could do, at this point,” Dean says into Sam’s chest, the words coming out muffled and slightly crumpled on the edges.  He can feel the hug get even tighter though, so they must have been the right words to say.  Half the time these days, he’s had no idea how to even talk to Sam any more. They’re most of the way back to being brothers again, but there’s still so much submerged debris they have to avoid triggering another collapse.  It’s been exhausting.

 

“I wanted to be able to call you Sammy again, and not have you flinch,” Dean says, a little quieter, the words muffled by his hesitation before they even reach the flannel of Sam’s shirt on his lips.

 

Sam pulls out of the hug abruptly, but doesn’t let go of Dean, his hands  are clamped tightly on Dean’s shoulders, his face wide and open like he hasn’t seen it in ages. “No more flinching, I swear, I’ll try, I really will.  Not after this,” Sam says through a smile that widens more and more until both dimples are showing. Dean wants to photograph Sam’s face and save it forever. There’s nothing like the face of the beloved, loving you back.

 

“You are way too easy, my brother,” Dean says with a grin that he feels down to the soles of his feet. He can practically hear his skin crinkling near his eyes. How long has it been since he’s smiled this much? He must look like a lunatic.

 

Sam’s hand comes off of Dean’s shoulder and he feels the brush of Sam’s fingertips near the corner of one eye. “I’ve really missed these,” Sam says, looking entranced and muddled.

 

“Missed what?” Dean asks, although of course he knows.

 

Sam leans down and kisses the path his fingertips have left tingling on Dean’s skin. The tingling turns to burning as he kisses each and every eye crinkle.

 

“What a weird thing to miss, Sammy,” Dean murmurs into Sam’s ear that is so close he can see every curve and whorl, the small hairs, the scar where the basilisk bit him that time in Washington. Since Sam is kissing on his face, he figures it’s okay if he returns the favor and leans forward enough to brush his lips over the skin behind Sam’s ear. The spot that always makes Sam shiver and oh…there it is…moan.

 

“Dean, we need to,” Sam says breathlessly, like the moan has knocked the wind out of him.

 

Dean pulls him in closer, nuzzles into Sam’s neck and says, “Hell yeah, we do.”

 

“We do, yes. I mean definitely. But first. Dean, c’mon, stop. We need to talk first.”

 

Dean groans in answer and lets go of his brother, stepping back with his hands raised in dramatic surrender.

 

“Don’t be such a drama queen, you know we need to,” Sam chides, bumping Dean’s shoulder with his own on the way out of the dungeon. Dean follows him, because what else can he do? Sam doesn’t say anything, just walks back to the smaller library room off the main room. He sinks down into one of the cushy library chairs and leans back. He looks up at Dean, standing there in the doorway unmoving. He pulls the chair next to him as close as possible, and taps the arm of it, indicating that’s where he wants Dean to sit.

 

Dean’s heart sinks, because he thought that he was going to get away without a big discussion. A big dissection of all his failures over the last year. He knows what he did, what he caused, and he doesn’t want to talk about it, because what’s talking ever done for them?  He tries his best not to scowl outwardly and sits down in the chair like the good Dean that Sam’s expecting him to be. Who knows, maybe he deserves that at least? No probably he does.

 

“Thank you. I..uh..I’m sorry to interrupt things, but we’ve been putting this off too long, and I feel like if we don’t talk about this stuff right now, we never will. We’ve got to try and do things differently,” Sam says, putting his heartfelt apologetic puppy eyes on full display.

“All right, I get it. The stack of stuff we’ve shoved under the rug is getting too big to ignore. Lay it on me,” Dean admits, leaning back in his chair in preparation for being read the riot act.

 

“First of all, I’m pissed that you lied to me about why you went back in time. I don’t get why you had to lie about this on top of everything else. Can you try to explain it?”

 

“I..uh..Cas told me that I oughta just fess up, lay it all out for you. But I thought you’d try to stop me. And I really thought it’d work out,” Dean says.

 

“Well, Cas was right. But I don’t think I would’ve stopped you; the most I would have done was made you talk to me about it. And that’s so awful right? That it’s worth risking yourself on a spell and time traveling. You just don’t get it, do you?”

 

“Get what?” Dean asks, genuinely confused.

 

“What it does to me, when you’re just gone like that,” Sam says with a deep sadness that twists a knife Dean’s been carrying in his heart for quite a while.

 

“You know a thing or two about leaving,” Dean says.

 

“Yeah, I do. And you know what? I get how hard it is on the person left behind. Do you still not understand that it’s just as hard for me as it is for you?”

 

“You do just fine without me, you always have,” Dean says a little too flippantly…he’s thinking about Sam’s happiness with Jess, his liaison with Ruby or his domestic paradises with Amelia, but not wanting to bring up that still quite sore subject with him right now.

 

“I don’t even know what to say to that,” Sam says, really looking at a loss for words.

 

Dean waits for Sam to come up with something to say and gives up. “I mean, you always find someone to be with, soon as I’m gone. I’m sure you’re sad and stuff, but I’m not irreplaceable for you,” Dean says, trying to fill the silence, unclear at why Sam’s so stuck on this issue.

 

“Wow. That’s. That is really something. Do you know what I did? When you were gone this last time? Did you ever even bother asking what I did while you were off being a demon? You have no fucking clue what it means to me when you’re dead or gone. None,” Sam says, standing up, and beginning to walk out.

 

“Hey, c’mon, don’t walk out like this. You said you wanted to get it all out there.  There’s gotta be more, I know there is. If we’re lancing this boil, let’s get it all,” Dean says, knowing that will gross Sam out and short-circuit the mad dash he’s making out the door.

 

Sam stops, and his shoulders sag. “I’m not sure what the point is, Dean. You never listen. Even when you do ask, you don’t really hear what I say.”  Sam’s voice is so quiet and so full of hurt that Dean has to catch his breath and make himself stay seated. All he wants to do is fold his brother into his arms and make it all stop hurting.

 

“Sam, all I want to do, is make everything right with you. I’m willing to sit here and talk, long as we need to, to really get back on the same page. I feel like we’re reading different books these days.”

 

Sam sighs, one of those deep get-everything-out sighs that make it possible to keep going when you know you really shouldn’t.  He turns around slowly and steps back to sit in his chair. He doesn’t meet Dean’s eyes, or say anything. Just holds himself still and contained.

 

“So, now you’re not talking, huh? Well, this isn’t going to work if it’s just me blabbin’ now, is it? Get it out there, so we can deal. That was the idea, right?”

 

“I will, I’m just not sure where to start, especially given what you were saying before.”

 

“Look, let’s break it down, like a case. First, we both want this to work, right?”

 

“Yeah, of course,” Sam answers.

 

“Everything we’ve got, it’s all right here, you and me, that’s what’s most important to me, how about you?”

 

“You know it is,” Sam says.

 

“Well, I do now,” Dean says with a grin.

 

“Do you believe it though?” Sam asks.

 

“Yeah, yeah I do.  So what’s holding us back from being okay together? I heard you saying before, when we were down in the dungeon, that you were hurt and mad that I’d left you right after we got rid of Gadreel. You said that was where things were stuck for you, right?” Dean asks.

 

“Uh huh, that’s what I said. But things aren’t just stuck there and only there, Dean, it’s everything before that too, and what got piled on top of it all,” Sam says, sounding a little overwhelmed.

 

“Before that, when do you mean?”

 

“The stuff after you came back from Purgatory mostly. I mean, I know you said that none of it meant anything to you, when you were trying to get me to stop the last Trial. But you would have said anything at that point to get me to stop. I’m not sure whether to really believe it. I want to though, if that helps.”

 

“The stuff after Purgatory, you mean the Benny thing?”

 

“Yeah, the Benny thing, Dean. I get that he was your friend or whatever in Purgatory, but why didn’t you tell me about him, right at the start? I mean, I told you about Amelia,” Sam said, cutting himself off at that and not adding more.

 

“I didn’t tell you, because I was messed up about it. Me, having been friends with a vampire. And I thought I’d left Cas behind in Purgatory. I didn’t think you’d understand, why I needed Benny, and I thought you’d be mad that I was friends with a monster after I killed your friend Amy,” Dean admits.

 

Sam nods in understanding. “Why were you so mad about Amelia, though? You did that whole thing with the fake emergency text. It wasn’t like you, it really hurt having to see her again,” Sam says.

 

“I’m sorry. I was just doing what I thought I had to, to get Benny out of there. You were gonna kill him,” Dean says.

 

“Yeah, I probably would have,” Sam says, “It would have been the right thing to do, given what we knew about the case.”

 

“But it wasn’t him doing those murders. I believed him, just like you believed Amy. And I was wrong to kill Amy, I know I was, and I’m sorry that I killed your friend,” Dean says.

 

“I’m sorry that you had to kill Benny, and I’m glad you had a friend in Purgatory. I just wish you’d let me in on the big secret,” Sam says.

 

“I wish I had. You woulda liked the guy.  And you know, for the record, I’m glad you had Amelia. You deserve to be happy, no matter who you’re with,” Dean says.

 

“You do too, Dean, even if you’ll never admit it to yourself,” Sam says. “And you probably would have liked Amelia. She was as messed up as we are.”

 

“Still think you made the right choice?” Dean asks, recalling the agonizing few days when he wasn’t sure who Sam was going to pick to stick with.

 

“I can’t believe you’re asking me that. But since you did, yes, I know I made the right choice. It wasn’t really a terribly hard choice to make though. You and me? That’s what I’ll always go with, because I need it, just as much as you do.”

 

“So is that all, the stuff after Purgatory, or is there more?” Dean asks, a little hesitant, in case there’s something even bigger to deal with.

 

“Yeah, the whole thing about me checking into going back to finish college, and how you reacted.”

 

Dean plays dumb, as if he doesn’t remember how his heart had sunk, convinced that Sam had never let go of that long-held dream.

 

“I was checking those colleges out, because Amelia was going back to her husband, who wasn’t dead all of a sudden. So I needed something to do. Since you were dead and gone as far as I knew. That’s the reason. It’s not a thing that I want or need now, though. It was to help me make it through.”

 

“Make it through?” Dean asks, perplexed at Sam’s vagueness.

 

Sam sighs and focuses on a spot between his bare feet on the floor. “You being dead again, Dean. See, I never told you this. And you never asked. But since you don’t get it, here goes,” Sam says, turning to look away at one of the corners of the library, like he’s unable to acknowledge saying this out loud. “I lost it after you disappeared. Big time. Much worse than before. Maybe because of the whole Hell trauma thing, who knows? But I had no one that time. No Bobby calling and checking on me. So I gave in to it. I pretty much gave up.”

 

“When you say that you gave up, does that mean that…?” Dean asks, not really wanting to hear the answer that he knows Sam is going to give.

 

“Yeah, I was going to…you know…end it. That was when I hit my dog, Riot, and…well…you pretty much know the rest,” Sam finishes, voice fading towards the end as his head tips towards his chest.

 

Dean sees his brother pulling back into himself at this admission, and he can’t help himself. He’s kneeling in front of Sam, between his legs, grabbing him into a bear hug and breathing like he’s just run a sprint. “I almost lost you. You were…Oh god, Sammy,” Dean says, voice muffled in the front of Sam’s flannel shirt.

 

Sam doesn’t say anything, just flinches at the nickname and lets himself be held, leans a little more into Dean’s embrace.

 

“I’m sorry I never asked. I should have,” Dean says, holding the side of Sam’s face and looking into his eyes.

 

Sam’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “You were a little busy having post-Purgatory PTSD. It’s okay, Dean.”

 

“No, it’s really not. I never thought.  Well, I never thought that you’d…”

 

“Miss you like that?” Sam asks, searching Dean’s eyes intensely.

 

Dean thinks about it for a long moment and then answers with a small shrug, “Yeah, I guess.”

 

Sam yanks himself away from Dean’s touch and flops back into his chair. He sighs and looks at Dean for a long moment.  “Dean. Do you see why that’s a problem? It keeps coming up.  And I can’t figure out whether this is about your low self-esteem, or you not trusting me or what. But, man, if you can’t accept that I need you just as much as you say you need me, then I’m not sure what we’re even doing trying to stay together.”

 

“Sammy,” Dean says in a voice full of pain and need, because it’s the only word he can think of, the only one that means anything anymore.

 

Sam’s flinch is a long, drawn-out, exaggerated affair this time. Unmistakeable for anything but what it is: A reaction of fear and revulsion to his own nickname, from Dean’s lips.

 

“What’s the flinching really about? When I call you Sammy?” Dean asks, before he can stop himself. He knows he should answer about the other thing. That’s much more important. Probably. But this is Sam’s name. He thought it meant something to him when he called him Sammy.

 

Sam makes a disgusted, scoffing noise, gets up abruptly and pushes past Dean without a word. He’s out the door and the door is slamming to his room down the hall before Dean’s even stood up completely. Dean spins around in a circle, clutching at his mouth, wishing he could put the words back inside. He stands there, shoulders slumped, breathing into his hands just to feel the warmth. He feels cold all over, inside and out. Except the Mark, of course, that’s always there, and always hot. It pulses faintly, like it’s feeling out whether it’s going to be fed anytime soon.  Dean scratches at it a few times and pulls his sleeve down over it.

 

_Much later…_

 

Dean’s done drinking. At least he thinks he is. For now. The bottle’s empty, at least. So’s the glass. At least he thinks it is. He tips it back and sucks at the last few drops that hit his lips. He sets the glass on his bedside table, and realizes his aim was off when he hears the crash of the glass falling to the tile floor. Vague thoughts of getting up and sweeping up the glass come to him, and pass through on the way to the welcome blackness of the oblivion he was hoping for.

 

~Sam~

 

Sam hears a glass breaking in his brother’s room as he’s passing by in the hallway to the kitchen. He’d been on the way to make some tea and maybe toast to settle his stomach after all the upset and crying. When he doesn’t hear anything else he goes to the utility closet, gets out the broom and dustpan and knocks gently at Dean’s door.  When there’s no answer, he pushes it open slowly, peeking around into the dimness. Only the desk lamp is on, and all the pictures Dean has of Sam are laid out in a neat grid.  The whisky bottle is empty, and lying on its side, almost under the bed, so it’s the glass that he’s broken this time.

 

Sam glances briefly at his brother, stretched out, completely oblivious to any of the brokenness or hurt that he’s caused tonight. Which was probably the point of getting so drunk. With a sigh, Sam sweeps up all the glass he can find, empties it into Dean’s trashcan with a satisfying crash. He’s about to leave when he hears a noise from the bed.   He turns and sees Dean’s body go rigid, fists clenched, neck straining, his head tossing from side to side. Dean’s back arches like he’s having a seizure and he yells at the top of his lungs, “Saaaaammmm!”

 

Sam sets the dustpan and broom down and steps towards the bed, where Dean is continuing to thrash, although he’s gone silent, except for quick, panting breaths. Sam sits next to him and holds one of his clenched fists. Dean’s murmuring something so he leans closer to hear the words.

 

“No. No. No. I won’t. I won’t do it. Not him. No, not Sammy! I can’t. Please. No. No. No!” Dean murmurs in a low tone that rise to a whisper scream by the last ‘no’.  Sam can’t stand it anymore and puts his hands on Dean’s shoulders, squeezing gently.

 

“Dean, hey, Dean, wake up, dude. You’re having a nightmare,” Sam says in what he hopes is a soothing tone. It seems close to the one that Dean usually pulls out for his nightmares.

 

Dean freezes, all his movement ceases, his words stop abruptly.  His muscles remain tense though, so hard and bunched that Sam knows he’s going to be really sore and achy tomorrow. Great, more shit to be grumpy about.

 

“Hey, you okay?” Sam asks in the same moderate, even tone.

 

Dean finally opens his eyes and stares up at Sam in what can only be termed wonder. Like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Whether it’s that Sam’s on his bed, touching him, or alive, or what…who knows what Dean was dreaming about?

 

“Yeah, uh, yeah, ‘m fine,” Dean mumbles, sitting up and scooting away from Sam as far as he can on the small bed.  “Sorry if I woke ya.”

 

“No, you didn’t, I was just coming down to the kitchen. You want something? I was going to make tea,” Sam offers, even though he knows that Dean will refuse, because he’ll be embarrassed about the whole nightmare thing.

 

“Sam, I’m sorry. For before, for what I said.  I wish…” Dean says, getting tangled up in the words he obviously wants to say. But Sam can see that he’s still quite drunk, the awareness from the nightmare fading fast.

 

“You just go back to sleep, okay? We’ll talk more tomorrow if you want to,” Sam says, hoping that’ll be enough for Dean. The last thing he wants to attempt is reasoning with a drunk brother who maybe won’t remember tomorrow anyway.

 

Dean nods a little more slowly than normal and scoots back down under the covers, curling on his side around where Sam’s sitting on the bed. “Stay? Jus’ ’til ‘m sleepin’?” Dean mumbles.

 

“Of course,” Sam says with a sad smile. It seems like the least he can do. How is it that he can end up feeling so damn guilty after that conversation earlier? He shakes his head at himself. He doesn’t know, but he does. He feels bad for making Dean so upset that he’d drink like this. His hand is in Dean’s hair, stroking through the longer-than-usual strands, fingers rubbing in gentle circles on his scalp.  Dean’s head leans into his grip and then his body relaxes into sleep.

 

“I wish too, Dean. I wish we could just make it all work somehow. But there’s too much to get through, too many times we’ve hurt each other. All I want is for you to be happy, or as happy as you can be, that’s all I care about anymore. But I don’t know what to do,” Sam whispers, hoping that it’ll sink into the sleeping and drunk brain of his stubborn-ass brother who he loves beyond all reason.

 

The only thing that ever makes him feel better when things are this bad, is the feeling of Dean in his arms. It’s the only way he knows to help now, when words only seem to hurt, and all the whisky’s gone.  Sam crawls into bed behind Dean, and wraps himself around his brother, arms and legs both. He falls asleep with the taste of Dean’s skin on his lips where they rest on the back of his neck.

~~~~


	4. Chapter 4

~~~~~

In the morning, or what he guesses must be morning, he wakes up alone. Bed empty, space where Dean lay cold. He sits up and looks around the room in a panic, because there’s no way he could have slept through Dean leaving.  And Dean should still be in bed anyway, sleeping off the hangover he’s got to have this morning.  A quick search of the room reveals a few crucial changes. The photos of him that were laid out on the desk are gone, so’s Dean’s duffel bag, and his boots.  So he’s gone? Where and why, are the only questions ringing through Sam’s mind as he races down the cold hallway toward the kitchen.

On the coffee maker, there’s an envelope with his name written on it in Dean’s careful scrawl.  It’s one of the fancy Men of Letter’s heavyweight stationery envelopes with the seal on the corner and the gold art deco bars on the flap.  Sam sits down at the table with the envelope in his hand.  He reads it, SAM.  Not Sammy, which is usually how Dean writes his name. Even on little sticky note messages, always Sammy, ( _Sammy, Let Me Go_ ) but not this time.  His heart sinks into his churning stomach. He sets the envelope down without opening it. Knowing that whatever’s in there is going to hurt, and hurt badly.

He stands up and busies himself for a short time in the kitchen, making a pot of coffee, some quick eggs and toast. He eats at the counter, across the big room from the table where the envelope lays, trying not to think about it.  He briefly considers putting it off to take a shower, but decides that’s stupid and that if Ghost Kevin were still around he’d be making all the appliances ding to tell him to knock it off and read the damn thing. Finally, after the dishes are cleaned, the counters wiped and all the pots put away, he takes a deep breath and marches back to the table, scooping the letter up and opening it as he leans against the kitchen table.

_Sam,_

_I’m sorry. I just have to start out with that. Because I am. I’ve hurt you so much these last few years. More than I ever realized or even thought about. I’ve assumed things about your motivations that weren’t at all true. I’ve accused you of being a bad brother or a bad hunter when I was angry. Of course you’re the best brother a man could ever have and you’re a far better hunter than I can ever hope to be._

_Worst of all,  I turned myself into a demon and almost killed you, right here in our damn home.  All of that’s unforgivable, but yet you’re still here with me. I can’t figure out why you would be. And I realized tonight, that all this time, ever since I picked you up from Stanford, I’ve made sure you had no other option but sticking with me.  It’s not right. I can’t do it to you any more._

_I just can’t._

_What we have, (or had) was the best thing in my life. No,_ _it was my life._

_And I’m pretty sure it’s been the worst thing in the world for yours._

_I’m sorry._

_I know my leaving like this is the coward’s way out, but like you said tonight, it’s pretty much my M.O. when it comes to stuff like this._

_I suck and I know it, believe me._

_Sam, you are an amazing person, you’re so fucking smart, so beautiful and sexy and you care so deeply about everyone.  If it’s the last thing you ever do for me, please just try and be happy, move on, forget me, whatever you need to do to have the better life you deserve._

_Bye Sam, I love you,_

_Dean_

Sam doesn’t realize he’s crying until his tears have hit the ink on Dean’s last words on the page, blurring the ‘Sam’ until it looks like he feels: An undifferentiated blob of worthless nothing.  He lets himself cry for a while, lets the shock of it all hit him hard and deep, right where Dean was aiming. It cuts him up inside, he feels shredded, all those safety pins he’s been held together with all this time, opening up and pushing through. They make a new pathway for the ball of pain deep inside him. He feels it growing larger and larger, consuming all his thoughts and breath and blood. It expands and pushes and consumes everything he is, until he feels himself about to burst.  And then it does, it all burns out of him in a concentrated blast of energy and untapped power that’s always been there, waiting to be used. He can’t see it, can’t see anything, all he can feel is the words flowing out of him, heading to Dean, wherever the hell he is.

** **

**No. No Way.**

You do **NOT** get to do this.

Not to  **me.**

You finally took me to Venice, Dean. **Venice.**

You knew what that meant to me.

I **know** you did.

You come back here right **NOW.**

I mean it Dean. NOW.

Or I will find your sorry ass and bring it back myself.

And it will not be pretty.

Come Home **NOW.**

After the words are said, or communicated, or whatever the hell that was, Sam feels a return of energy into the place that was empty. A rushing-in feeling, being filled up by what he’d put out there maybe? He’s scared though, to have accessed and used that power without getting a conscious choice is terrifying. Did something beyond this extreme emotion make him do this?

What in the world is Dean going to think or do? And oh god, oh god, what if he was driving? Of course he was driving, he’s running away from me.

And that’s all Sam remembers, running away

                                                                    - running tears

                                                                                            - running rivers of blood

                                                                                                                                  - running down an empty lonely road

                                                                                                                                                                                          - running until he’s all alone.

~~~~

“Sam? Where are you? Sam!” Dean yells when he enters the top floor door to the bunker. He runs down the stairs, scanning the big room below him. Empty, no Sam.  He heads off for the kitchen and is horrified to see his brother lying on the floor with blood all around his head. He’s completely still, and deathly pale. Dean rushes to a kneeling position on the floor, avoiding the pool of blood, he feels for a pulse on his brother’s neck. It’s there, but very weak. The blood on the floor and Sam’s face is mostly dried-up and seems to be all from a nosebleed, no other visible cuts on his head. There’s a swollen bump on the side of his head where it must have struck the floor when he fell.

Did he faint?  Using all that power must have made him faint. Oh god, what if there’s brain damage. What have I done to him?

Dean’s emergency medic skills kick in and he folds up his jacket for a pillow to elevate Sam’s head. He gets a towel and some warm water to clean up the blood from Sam’s face and hair. Then he uses the emergency kitchen flashlight to check Sam’s pupil dilation. Thankfully it looks pretty even. He doesn’t really want to move Sam, but he probably needs a hospital. That’s half an hour away in Smith Center for the County Hospital.

He stands and readies himself to haul an unconscious Sam all the way up the stairs and out of the Bunker. But first he looks at his brother, lying there, so peaceful you’d never have guessed that burst of anger would have carried all the way to where he’d been, three hours away, almost to Topeka.  He’d made it back in just two and half. But that wasn’t fast enough. Sam’s been lying here for that long, heart barely beating, breathing so shallowly. Alone, all this time.  Dean wants to take the time to beat himself up about this properly, but he’s got a job to do here. He’s got to do right by Sam, at least this once.

Bending down, he hoists his brother up onto his back in a fireman’s carry. Trying to stabilize Sam’s head as well as he can over his left shoulder.  Sam moans softly and then goes silent again.

“I gotcha Sam, I’m here, gonna take care of you,” Dean says, more to comfort himself than Sam. Sam, not Sammy. Not ever again, he reminds himself.

He staggers out of the kitchen, crossing through the main room and slowly makes his way up the staircase to the exit.  The locked front door is a bitch to open with two hands, so it’s a surprise when he manages it without having to jostle Sam around too much. Then he’s got Sam in Baby’s front seat, his head propped up on his lap so he can keep an eye on him during the drive. The drive that he knows so well. Not that he’s ever been to this particular hospital, but Smith Center is where they go for most shopping since they’ve lived at the Bunker. And it’s small, so he knows exactly where the hospital is. Hopefully they’re big enough to handle whatever Sam’s got going on in that big skull of his.

He runs his fingers through Sam’s hair, trying to unknot it where it’s gone stiff with the remnants of dried blood. He cups one hand around Sam’s cold cheek and just holds him steady while he steers Baby the rest of the way there.

“I’m sorry, Sam. I won’t leave you like that. Ever again. I promise. And that means you can’t leave me, okay?  I get it now, Sam. I swear I do. Please, you gotta be okay so I can tell you.”

Sam responds to his words with a small moan and a small twitch in his hand which quickly subsides. Dean’s heart leaps with hope that Sam heard him somehow, that this means he’s going to be okay.

“Almost there, Sammy. Uh, I’m sorry, Sam, we’re almost there,” Dean says, mentally kicking himself for using the name.

The intake nurses in the emergency room are great, they get Sam into imaging for a CT scan right away and send Dean to wait in the cozy waiting room. The tv mounted in the corner near the ceiling is humming along at a low enough level to make it easy to ignore. There are two other groupings of people waiting with him that he barely acknowledges, drawing into himself to review what happened and plan what comes next.  He scribbles in his small notebook to gather his thoughts, trying to work it like a case, which feels like the only thing he knows how to do,

I left around 5am

Sam read my goodbye note around 8am

He got angry(?)

He sent me a message through telepathy (maybe like Andy did?)

He fainted (?) and was still unconscious two and half hours later

He’s probably just going to wake up with a big headache

But it’s probably really the demon powers again (?!)

What do I do? I really meant what I said in my note, I don’t think I’m good for him

But he’ll kill me if I’m not here when he wakes up.

How do I apologize?

How do I leave, will he let me? Or will he do _that_ again?

What if he’s not okay, or not himself when he wakes up?

Several hours later, one of the nurses comes in to shake him awake. He can’t believe he fell asleep. The hangover he’d been ignoring roars back full force as follows her down the hall to Sam’s room.

“Now, Mr. Winchester, he’s going to be out for some time. The doctor felt it best to leave him sedated until the swelling goes down,” the nurse says, blocking his entrance into the room.

“Swelling?” Dean asks, trying to peer around her at the too-still body on the bed.

“Didn’t the doctor come talk to you? Let me check the chart, hold on.” She walks into the room and flips open the chart from the foot of Sam’s bed reading through the scribblings. “Oh, it says Doctor Venter didn’t want to wake you, but I can tell you for him. Mr. Winchester has internal swelling that’s putting pressure on his brain. It’s not enough to require surgery, but it is serious, and it’s good that you brought him in. He’s going to be out for the rest of the day and night, and then the doctor will re-check the swelling level. If it’s gone down enough, they’ll bring him out of sedation tomorrow morning.”

“Got it. So, can I see him?”

“Of course you can.  Just remember, he’s pretty far under, but he might be able to hear you, you never know. I’ve heard some pretty funny stories over the course of my time being a nurse here. People remember all kinds of things when they’re under like this.”

Dean remembers his manners and reads her name tag. “Thanks, uh, Gladys. You’ve been a big help.”

Dean approaches the hospital bed with soft footsteps, not sure why he’s creeping around since Sam is out, but it doesn’t seem right to go stomping and crashing around. He leans over the bed and kisses Sam on the cheek above the tape for the breathing tube. “Love you, Sam. Never stopped. Never will.”  He doesn’t realize he’s crying until there are tears running down the side of Sam’s face and onto his neck.  He straightens up and wipes them off gently with his shirt sleeve.  “I’ll stop crying all over you. Soon as you wake up, you can give me hell for it.”

The nurse, Gladys, had said Sam might hear him. And he’s got nothing better to do while he waits out the rest of the day, so he talks. And drinks pitchers of ice water that Gladys keeps bringing him. And he talks some more. Saying all the things he wished he’d been able to before. Working out for himself, out loud, why hearing ‘Sammy’ is an issue for Sam. When he realizes the truth for himself, he cries some more. For what he’s done, for what he almost did as a demon. And he still wonders why Sam’s still here, still wanting to be with him.

“You’re just gonna have to wake the hell up, Sam, and tell me yourself. I’ve gone round and round about it for ages now. And I can’t work it out for myself. I believe you now. I really do. But I still need to know why. If you can explain it to me so I can understand it, that’d be great. But I believe you, that’s the main thing. You wouldn’t have been able to do that telepathy thing, whatever it is you did, to call me back here, if you didn’t feel something big for me. So I get it now. As much as I can. And I swear, when you wake up, like I know you’re gonna, you can tell me I’m an idiot for leaving. Because I know I was. I am.”

Dean stops his monologue and takes a deep breath, hesitating even though Sam is unconscious, it’s still so hard to say this out loud. “I just wanted to keep you safe. From me. That nightmare I had last night, it was about killing. And enjoying it. Killing you. And I can’t know that I’ll be able to stop myself. And you can’t know that either. I know you say you’ll find a way, we’ll find a way to get rid of this damn thing. And I want to believe it, but I have to keep you safe. You know that, right? I know you do. And I thought, well I thought it would be better to stay away from you. So if I get real bad again, I wouldn’t be any where near you, so I couldn’t hurt you again. I have nightmares, Sam, almost every night, where Cas doesn’t come in time to stop me, and I’m chopping your head off in the damn hallway. And I’m smiling and grinning and loving it. So help me, that is not happening. Never again. So wake up so we can talk, and so maybe you can let me go once you understand what’s at stake.”

It’s dark outside the green mesh curtains when Gladys returns and pushes him out the door to the cafeteria. Her shift is over and she chides him that his friend wouldn’t want him to end up in the same predicament.  Dean doesn’t correct her that Sam’s his brother, not just his friend. But he does what she says, sits at a table by himself and chokes down a dry sandwich and some salty soup with another cup of tasteless hospital coffee.  It’s never a fun time waiting in a hospital, and he’s had way too much practice. Both of them have.  He wonders if Sam’s heard any of the stuff he’s been telling him. Or if this has just been a trial run for when Sam’s back to walking and talking. Or at least talking.

Dean stays there at Sam’s bedside the whole night, Gladys must have let the nurses know he was one of *those* family members who are impossible to shoo away for non-visiting hours. It’s nice not to get bothered by well-meaning nurses for once, though. He’s got more important things to deal with. Like worrying about whether the demon powers (or whatever that was) are going to mean Sam won’t be Sam when he wakes up. Most of the time he spends just watching Sam, his chest moving up and down so similar to when he’s breathing on his own. It reminds him of what he looks like when he’s deeply asleep, after they’ve had several rounds of deeply satisfying sex. He can see that Sam’s face isn’t as relaxed as you’d think it would be, as sedated as he is, but there was a lot of anger in that blasted message he received. It had almost made him drive right into the cars next to him on the highway. Pulling over safely while having Sam’s furious voice pounding through his skull was quite an accomplishment. He knows he deserved it, and probably worse.

~~~~ The next morning, Dean’s been awake for just a few minutes, enough to use the bathroom and slash some water on his face.  When he comes back out into the room, there’s a silver-haired man in a white coat examining his brother.

“Hi, Doctor, I’m Sam’s brother, Dean Winchester.”

“Yes, hello, Mr. Winchester, good to meet you. Okay, so down to it, your brother’s got himself a class five concussion, with some subdural swelling that looks to have decreased somewhat overnight. Which is a good sign. He didn’t sustain any fractures, so that’s a good thing. According to the CT scan, this isn’t his first head injury, not by a long shot. He happen to be an athlete or something?”

“Yeah, something like that, and he’s pretty clumsy too.  Uh…Doc, is he going to be okay?”

“I’d say he’s got a real good chance of coming out of this without too much long-term impact on normal function. Brain trauma is cumulative, so that makes it hard to predict. Also, there may be some temporary issues like seizures that you’ll have to worry about for the next few weeks after he’s released. This all assumes that when he comes out of sedation later this morning, all his brain function tests are in normal range. That’s what we’re hoping for, the best-possible outcome, right?”

“Uh…right.  Can I ask, is there any brain damage present at all, from the previous injuries?” Dean asks, thinking about all those concussions, too many to count at this point. Plus the whole Hell-Wall thing and the zapping his brain got in the mental hospital, thanks to that demon orderly. And who knows what state Gadreel and Crowley left him in. It’s all got to add up to a lot of visible damage.

“There are some areas of concern, especially in the area of the brain that control memory storage and retrieval. Has your brother had noticeable difficulty recalling recent events?”

“No, not that I’ve noticed. He’s been bringing up childhood memories, things like that, a little bit lately,” Dean says.

“But not recent events though? Say within the last several months?”

Dean thinks of the last several months, and what’s happened during them, and it isn’t surprising Sam wouldn’t have talked about them much. And he has no idea what happened while they were separated while he was off being a demon. But what if Sam hasn’t said anything because he doesn’t have the memories because his brain is screwed-up?  “Hard to say; let me think about that one.”

“You do that. So, the nurse will be in to reduce the sedation, and he’ll probably be back with us in an hour or so.  Don’t expect a lot right away, he’s going to be pretty out of it, I’d imagine.”

“Thanks, doc, for taking such good care of m’ brother. He’s all I’ve got left and he means everything to me.”

The doctor leaves with what seems like a patronizing nod, and Dean’s left with more hope for Sam being okay, but new worries about what might be going on in his brain. How would these powers of Sam’s look on a CT scan, or would they even be something that’s scannable?  There’s probably some psychic study out there, but that’s all moot until Sam wakes up and talks to him. That’s all he wants, Sam awake and aware and able to listen.

Gladys bustles in and adjusts the medication on the IV. She comes in and out several times, lowering the dose gradually, until finally Sam’s fingers start moving on their own. Dean tries to contain his excitement but can’t resist pressing the nurse call button several times. Gladys is back in a flash and standing ready to remove the breathing tube.

Sam’s eyes finally flutter open and he dazedly scans the room, first landing on Gladys and then locking onto Dean. His eyes tighten into anger and he opens his mouth to speak, but is unable to because of the breathing tube.

“Hold on there, honey. Let me help you get this out, okay? Try to relax, and cough when I say so, all right?”  Gladys says, leaning over the bed and un-taping the breathing tube from Sam’s face.  She expertly begins to withdraw it, telling Sam to cough at several points, so that eventually the whole thing is out. Then he’s coughing, long and loud.  “Don’t strain with the coughing; your brain doesn’t need the pressure, okay? Here, take some water, hon,” she says, handing Sam a cup with lukewarm water and a bendy straw.  Sam drinks and looks at her gratefully, his coughing subsiding.

“Can you say anything, Mr. Winchester?” Gladys asks.

“Call me Sam,” he answers with a small smile and a weak, scratchy voice.

Dean breathes a sigh of relief at Sam’s return to good humor, but that’s dashed the moment Gladys leaves to go find the doctor so he can come in and do some exams.  Sam turns to him and glares, doesn’t say a thing, just glares with the angriest eyes Dean’s seen on anyone in a long time. _At least they’re not yellow,_ he finds himself almost saying out loud, but thank god he stops himself in time.  “Sam. I’m sorry,” Dean says, congratulating himself for remembering not to use the now-dreaded nickname.

Sam doesn’t acknowledge his apology, just continues glaring with the same intense stare.

“You’re mad. Of course you are. I came back though, when you called me, and you were there on the kitchen floor, passed out, lying in your blood.”

Sam flinches a little at the mention of blood and feels around his skull.

“No, nothing’s broken. You lucked out. Doctor said you had some swelling inside, that’s why they had you sedated and with the breathing thing.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring intently at Dean, like he’s trying to move him aside with his mind.

“I get it now, Sam. I swear I do,” Dean says quietly, reaching out to hold Sam’s hand.  Sam pulls it away and clasps his own hand so tightly the knuckles go white.

“You don’t want to talk, or me to touch you, that’s fine. You’re the boss,” Dean says, sitting back in his chair and clasping his hands together tightly in an imitation of Sam’s.

Dr. Venter comes back in with Gladys trailing close behind.  “So, you’re awake, that’s great to see this morning, Mr. Winchester.”

“Call me Sam, please,” Sam says, voice still rough and gravely.

“So, Sam, I’m going to perform some tests, make sure everything is working the way it’s supposed to, okay? Then Gladys here will get you something to eat.”

Dr. Venter checks reflexes, pupil dilation, and presses around the injury site on the side of Sam’s head.  He winces a little, but doesn’t cry out in pain.

“Can you tell me, what did you have for breakfast yesterday?”

“I had two eggs, over-easy, a slice of whole-grain toast with mixed-fruit jam, and one cup of coffee with a small amount of milk and sugar.”

“How about last week, did you catch the Jayhawks game?”

“Yes, well, I read the score, didn’t get to watch it, we were out of town, but they won, beat Kansas State 68-57.”

“And where were you born?”

“Down east, over in Lawrence.”

“Well, it’s all looking pretty good, Sam. A little bit of numbness on your lower leg, same side as your injury; it should clear up soon.  We’ll keep you one more night, just to make sure all the swelling is down.”

“Okay, thanks Doctor Venter, you’ve been great,” Sam says.

“Just keep still today, as much as you can. And nothing that will strain the injury area. I will see you tomorrow.”

The doctor leaves and Gladys steps in to adjust a few monitoring devices that are threaded through Sam’s hospital gown.  “You let me know when you’re ready for something to eat, and yeah, staying still means bedpans for the rest of the day, just press the button and we’ll come help you. I’ll leave you two be for now, I’m sure there’s a lot Dean wants to tell you based on how much he was talking to you all day yesterday.”

Gladys turns to Dean and looks him up and down with a critical eye. “The night nurses probably won’t let you get away with another night in here though, Dean. I’m sorry.”

“I get it. Thanks for letting me stay last night. I don’t know what I’d have done.”

“You just get him talking, used to being awake and aware,” Gladys says as she leaves.

“So, uh. You gonna talk to me, Sam?” Dean finally asks after a long, increasingly uncomfortable silence.

Sam just glares, and doesn’t say anything. His eyes don’t leave Dean’s face, and they track him whenever he moves.  Dean knows he’s got some explaining to do. A lot.  But Sam does too.

“So how long have you had the power voice and were you ever gonna tell me?” Dean asks, not expecting an answer, but just putting it out there to start the conversation in Sam’s mind. Which he knows is churning over every possible way to answer without speaking.

Sam doesn’t say anything, no explanations or accusations, just sullen silence.

“I almost crashed, you know. You might want to practice a little, make sure you can modulate how loud you come through. It made it a little hard to function. At least my eardrums weren’t bleeding or anything.”

Sam rolls his eyes at that one, but doesn’t say a word to defend himself. Or explain his sudden powers.

“Like I said, Sam. I get it, what you were mad about. At least I think I do. And I’m sorry. Sorry for everything, for leaving, for not understanding, for not listening to you, for not asking all those times I should have.  I hope you can forgive me some day.”

No response from Sam, except for slightly less angry eyes, and his hands have finally relaxed. Dean gives up trying to read his face and looks down at his lap, where the streaks of blood from Sam’s head are on one thigh. He picks at it until the red flakes fall away.

“Not mine, don’t worry. I drove you the whole way here with your head in my lap. Got some of your blood on my jeans,” Dean explains, when he sees Sam’s expression change over to worried little brother.

Sam nods and closes his eyes. Dean can see him visibly attempting to relax.  But the tightness around his mouth and the obvious tension in his shoulders gives him away.

“You want me to leave you alone for a little while? I’ll go.  I’d rather not, but if I’m making you upset, I probably should.”

Sam shakes his head in a small, controlled movement, his eyes still closed. He tightens them further, and Dean sees several tears escape.  Sam wipes them off and looks at Dean again.  Finally he speaks.  “No, stay. I don’t want to talk about everything until you take me back home.”

“Okay, Sam, okay.”

Dean stops apologizing, but keeps talking, filling the silent room with one-sided banter, stories he doesn’t think he’s shared with Sam before, memories of their family from when Sam was very young. He talks about his bucket list, and how the Grand Canyon is still on there, and now that they’ve done Venice, that should be the next trip they make. The whole time he talks, he leaves spaces in his monologue where Sam would normally be responding, with either snark, questions, or his own comments. Dean tries to answer the questions he thinks Sam would usually ask. Slowly, Sam’s angry eyes turn into his more normal resting bitch-face.  The one that Dean’s always thought of as Sam’s I’m-tolerating-my-big-brother-because-I’m-supposed-to expression.

Eventually, it starts to get dark outside, and Gladys comes back in to say goodnight and check Sam. She reminds Dean about the night nurses, and how they’ll probably kick him out.

“I’ll handle it, thanks Gladys,” is all Dean has to say.  “Thanks for taking such good care of my brother. We appreciate it.”

Gladys smiles and leaves with a small wave.

~~~~


	5. Chapter 5

~~~

Dean ends up falling asleep with his head on Sam’s bed, near his feet. The night nurses come in to roust him, but Sam asks that they let him rest.  For some reason, his puppy-dog eyes work on them. Or maybe it’s the ring of command in his voice. Either way, Sam gets to fall asleep, watching Dean, and for that he’s very grateful. There’s something about the peace and comfort of knowing his brother is there that helps him relax enough to fall into his own deep sleep.

~~~

In the morning, Dean is predictably grumpy about the crick in his neck from sleeping in that strange position. But Sam gestures at all the medical equipment he’s plugged into, so Dean shuts up pretty quickly.  Dean heads out to the cafeteria to get some coffee and comes back to the room as Dr. Venter is leaving. 

“I’m releasing your brother this morning, he’s improved enough that I think he’ll do better recovering at home. Gladys will give you the release instructions, just concentrate on keeping him from doing anything too physical for at least a week, and keep an eye out for any seizures.”

“Got it. Thanks, Doc,” Dean says, shaking his hand, very grateful to hear that Sam’s going home. Another night in this hospital would not be okay on his back.

“You almost ready to go, Sam?” Dean asks, as he re-enters the room.  Sam doesn’t answer as he’s in the middle of getting dressed into his street clothes. Dean doesn’t say anything more, just watches his brother’s beautiful body disappear under all the usual layers. Sam finally gives him the stop-ogling-me look. 

“Hey, looking’s not a crime, far as I know,” Dean teases, hoping that today’s going to be a little easier between them.

Sam hands him the discharge instruction paper that Gladys had left and stands up from the bed. He starts to teeter a little, and Dean’s at his side in an instant with one arm around his waist to steady him.  “Easy there, Gigantor, take it slow. Don’t forget you’ve been lying down for a few days,” Dean says.  Sam shrugs him off and slowly makes his way to the bathroom, holding onto furniture and the railings along the walls. He closes the door with a near slam.  Dean rolls his eyes. _God help me I just want to make sure you don’t do it all over again._

Eventually they’re back on the road, and Dean stops at a McDonald’s drive through for breakfast and more coffee.  Sam still isn’t talking, but at least he eats the breakfast Dean hands him.  After all these years of fast-food breakfasts, at least Dean knows what he’d order without having to try to get him to talk.  Dean turns the local NPR station on the radio, since he knows Sam likes to catch the morning news.  Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a fleeting smile on Sam’s face so he knows that was a good move.

Once they’ve made it inside the bunker, Dean bustles around being a typical mother-hen getting Sam settled on his own bed. “No arguments, Sam. This bed is softer than that rock-hard mattress you’ve got in your room, plus it’s bigger in case you need me during the night. Okay? Just don’t even start.”  Sam rolls his eyes and gives in, snuggling down into the familiar smelling pillows and blankets that Dean heaps on top of him.  He falls asleep almost instantly, and Dean watches him for a very long time before finally stirring to go make them something good for lunch.

He returns a few hours later with a tray filled with steaming bowls of chicken noodle soup and toast. Sam actually smiles at him as he scoots up to sit against the headboard. That’s the best thing Dean’s seen in days so he smiles back and sits down on the bed facing Sam.  As they eat, Dean talks about making the soup, and how he hopes Sam likes the new spices he tried out in it. Sam nods through a mouthful, dipping bread in the soup and finishing every drop as his answer.  Dean goes to leave but Sam actually speaks. “Stay, Dean. Please.”

Dean’s never been able to say no to a request like that. And hearing Sam say his name without a scream of anger surrounding it makes the last few days’ upset disappear.  Dean moves the tray off the bed to his desk and turns to see Sam’s already pulled back the covers and is patting the bed beside him.  He takes his shoes, jeans, and over-shirt off before climbing in, trying not to smile like the happy fool he is.  Sam doesn’t speak again, like Dean was hoping, he just pulls Dean into his arms and nestles his nose into the top of Dean’s head. 

“Just stay,” Sam murmurs as he falls asleep. And Dean does, not just because of the doctor’s orders, but because he knows being in each other’s arms all night will soothe things between them as it always has.

Several hours later, Dean wakes up, and he’s not sure why he’s so warm and why he feels like something is wrong.  Then he hears it, Sam’s muttering under his breath, panicked and almost unintelligible. Most of the words he can make out are his name, as well as, _no, don’t go, need you._ He rubs at Sam’s back, hoping to calm him out of it without waking him, but Sam wakes up at his touch and scoots away. 

“You were having a nightmare or something, Sammy,” Dean says, barely awake himself. He realizes his mistake when he feels Sam’s full-body flinch.  “I’m sorry, force of habit. I’ve been trying not to say it.”

“I know, Dean, thanks,” Sam says.

“It’s because of Demon me, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry that you were a demon?”

“Yeah. And that I was such a raging asshole and tried to kill you.”

“It wasn’t really you, Dean. You’re right, he was a real jerk. But it was better than having you dead.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. Thought you said you got it back at the hospital. This is what I mean, Dean. Yes, me trying to live without you is worse than having you back as a demon that’s saying hurtful stuff and trying to kill me.  I know that’s messed up, but that’s the way it is for me.”

“Me too. Guess I do get it.  I just don’t always assume that it’s true for you, too. Maybe I should though.”

“Yeah. I’d say you should.”

“Okay, I will. And I’ll try to not call you ‘that’,” Dean says.

“I want to work on that with you, when we’ve gotten rid of this,” Sam says, stroking his fingers over the red mark on Dean’s forearm. “Because I miss it…what it used to mean.”

Dean full-body shivers at the feeling of the simultaneous arousing touch of Sam’s fingers and the Mark stirring to wakefulness.

“You okay?” Sam asks.

“Yeah. It’s just, uh…it feels weird when you do that.”

“Do you want me to stop?” Sam asks, finger circling around the Mark in a slow dragging slide.

Dean grits his teeth at the feeling that Sam’s finger is raising in him, desire awakened along with the Mark. “Probably be better if you did,” he finally admits through clenched teeth.

“Is it doing something to the Mark?” Sam asks, finger finally blessedly stopping its movement.

“It wakes it up, like a dog hearing the can opener going; it thinks it’s gonna get fed,” Dean says.

“You don’t want it to feed on me, huh?” Sam says, lightly teasing.

Dean sits up out of Sam’s embrace and slings his legs out from under the covers. “Not fuckin’ funny, Sam,” he says, sounding angry.

“You’re right, not funny. But I didn’t know, Dean, you’ve never been straight with me about it,” Sam challenges.

Dean stands up and stretches, pulls his jeans and over-shirt back on, picks up the tray and heads back to the kitchen without a word. Sam may be talking finally, but he doesn’t want to talk about _that._ Not yet. Not ever if he can swing it.

Sam yells, loud enough so he can’t help but hear it, “You’re going to have to tell me at some point!”

For the next few weeks, they’re within arm’s reach of each other almost 24/7, Sam insisting that Dean sleep with him because he gets more rest that way. Which isn’t true, because Dean is waking up screaming or whimpering a few times a night from nightmares he tries not to remember in the morning, and refuses to talk about them.  Dean makes excuses to be near Sam during the day, pretending to research, or to actually help Sam research, insisting that Sam hang out in the kitchen while he cooks up a storm. It’s a strange domestic detente they’ve reached without talking about it specifically. The magic words still haven’t been said that will fix what’s been distorted and bent between them. 

~~~

Sam keeps expecting Dean to quiz him more deeply on the powers he tapped into that allowed him to communicate telepathically. It’s been weeks now, and they haven’t talked about it except that one time in the hospital, and that was before Sam was even talking again. He’s not sure what to think about Dean’s studied disinterest on the topic. _Maybe he’s just so used to me being a freak it doesn’t seem worth talking about_ , Sam finally concludes. And it doesn’t feel like something that would be good to just bring up, because he has no explanation for it, not that isn’t just a hunch or guess.

He realizes, though, that Dean’s up to something that he’s trying very hard to hide. He’s been erasing the search on his laptop, which he never does. Sam feels a momentary stab of indecision about hacking into Dean’s laptop, given how little privacy they have and all that. But he talks himself out of it when he remembers the last thing Dean lied to him about.

“I found it. Your search for jobs on the West Coast.  Definitely looked like a were of some kind. So, when are we going?” Sam asks.

“We’re not going anywhere. I am.”

“Not this again. I thought we decided; I’m better, I’ve healed up enough.”

“No, that’s not it. I’m…uh..I’m gonna go and not come back,” Dean says, not meeting Sam’s eyes.

“What? I don’t understand,” Sam asks, sounding like he’s already been missing Dean for ages.

“I have to go, Sam. I just do,” Dean says. The lump in his stomach has been there for these blissful weeks, the dread of making the break and actually leaving his brother like a gnawing cancer in his gut. 

“No, you don’t have to go anywhere. You can’t, not without at least explaining yourself this time,” Sam says in a small, wounded voice.

“The night before I left, I had another nightmare. About killing you, and enjoying it. And I can’t stop hearing what he said to me,” Dean confesses.

“Who said what to you?” Sam asks.

“Uh…Cain. Before I killed him, he said I was living his life in reverse and that I was gonna kill Crowley, then Cas, then you, just like he killed his brother. That was when I killed him.”

“So, all this time, you were having nightmares about that? Why didn’t you tell me, Dean? I knew it was something bad, but you kept pushing me away, you wouldn’t let me help you.”

“That’s ‘cause there wasn’t anything you can do to help. You tried. We both did. And there’s nothing, we know that now.  So that’s why I’ve gotta go. It’s the only way you’ll be safe.”

“No,” Sam says, with a ring of power behind the simple word.

“You’ll be okay. Maybe not at first, but you’ll figure it out. How to have a life without me. It’s the only way, Sam,” Dean says, wary of the intensity of Sam’s disagreement.

“Remember back when you were telling me I’d be fine when you were going to be taken off to Hell. That I was stronger than you?  This is the same thing all over again. Do you really not see that?” Sam asks, desperately trying not to get angry, or let his powers fly free again.

“And look what it made you do this time, Sam. You had to use those powers we thought were gone.” 

“So you _were_ worried about them. I was wondering when you’d bring it up. No wonder you’re leaving,” Sam says.

“That’s not why, Sam! It’s not about you or your freaky demon powers. I’m worried I’m going to do something we can’t ever come back from. I don’t want to kill you.”

“Well, my freaky demon powers say you’re staying,” Sam says.

“What, you’re going to keep me tied up here or something?”

“Do I have to tie you up? Or can you just give me one day?  For one freakin’ day, don’t ask questions. Just one day, then you can go if you have to.”

Dean makes one of those over-the-top lascivious faces, complete with manic eyebrow waggling.  When he doesn’t get the smile from Sam he’s hoping for, he stops, sobering himself up and putting on a serious face. “Okay, you got it. One day, no questions. I definitely owe you at least that.”

“I’m not even going to answer something that stupid. I’m just not going to waste my time on it. I’ll never let you hear the end of it if you take off before my day is up. Got it?”

“Got it, Sam. Can I at least get a hint at what you’re gonna try during this day?”

“No,” Sam says with short finality.  Dean’s eyebrows go up at the harshness and he shakes his head a little.

“It better not be something I’d do,” Dean says with what he hopes is a warning in his voice.

“Oh that’s rich, coming from you. Mister you-wouldn’t-do-the-same-for-me-so-you-don’t-love-me-enough. Spare me. Just shut up and stay out of it. If it works you’ll know, if it doesn’t, you probably won’t even notice.”

“That’s reaaalll comforting,” Dean says sarcastically.

“Too bad. That’s not what I’m here for, not anymore,” Sam says.

Dean feels a little hurt at that statement, but he nods in agreement and goes back into his room, shutting the door behind him with a quiet snick. Not a slam. He paces for a while, the Mark thrumming from the argument with Sam; he scratches at it for a while and then pulls his shirt sleeve down to cover it. Finally he gives up the futile pursuit of figuring out what the hell Sam is playing at and goes back to packing.  At least this time, he’ll have all his stuff with him, not that there’s a whole lot. 

He sorts through his small stack of photos of their friends, their parents, of he and Sam, and just Sam. _I oughta put these in a book or something_. Instead he takes good photos of them with his cellphone, and decides he’ll leave them for Sam, because he knows his brother has no photos of his own.  He decides to write Sam a letter to go with the photos and spends some time at his desk, writing about each one, and what was going on in it, in case Sam doesn’t know or remember. Who knows if he’ll even care. He might just want to try to forget everything.  At the end of the letter, Dean writes down the three things he’ll miss most about being with Sam. 

_So, if you don’t want these photos, that’s fine, you can toss them. I copied them with my cellphone._

_I’m sorry that it’s ending like this, between you and me.  But I can’t go back on what my whole life has been about, keeping you safe. Even if it’s keeping you safe from me._

_I’ve got to go and stay gone._

_We both know it._

_And I get it, that you’re going to miss me just as much as I’ll miss you._

_I do, Sam._

_The top three things I’ll miss most about not being with you are:_

_You, the physical space you take up in my life, in my car, in my bed, the comfort it gives me to be able to lay eyes on you whenever I need to, being able to hear your voice even if it’s you bitchin’ at me or saying sappy things to me, to be able to hold you and smell you. I won’t be able to see all of your bitchfaces, or see you smile at me, or give me that take-me-to-bed look. That’ll be the hardest thing to get over, never getting to physically be with you again._

_I won’t have my brother anymore, the only person who knows all of it, our history, the good and the bad of all the things I’ve done over this crazy life we’ve shared. There’s something about living with the one person in the whole damn world that knows your whole story. You might not know all of the stuff that’s happened inside of me, because I’m as you say “emotionally constipated," but you know a lot of it, and you’re smart enough to have worked out most of the rest.  The only secrets I’ve ever tried to keep from you about myself have been about me being scared, too scared to fail (to give you a life with me that you’d want to stick around for), scared to succeed (pretending that I was okay with us not being together because I thought it was best for you), or to not even have the guts to try (like waiting all those years for you to make the first move).  I’m a chicken-shit at heart, we both know it._

_Your love and faith and trust in me…god I’m going to miss being able to count on all of that, so much.  It almost overwhelms me to even think about not having that. It’s meant everything to me, that you’ve never once given up on me. I’ll never understand why, no matter how many times you try to explain it, but it has kept me going all these years, when I wanted to just lay down and give up. I couldn’t, because I knew you were bettin’ on me, and I couldn’t ever let you down.  And me leaving now, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, harder than selling my damn soul. That was easy compared to this. Knowing that I’m leaving you alone like this, I can’t even put it into words how I feel like so much worse than a complete failure._

_Bye, Sam,_

_I swear, I’ll keep on loving you,_

_until the day the Mark finally lets me die._

Dean finishes writing and is surprised to find his face wet with tears. He wipes them off with his shirt sleeve. The Mark pulses faintly when the tears soak through to his skin, hungry for any trace of emotion or pain it can possibly get.  He’s got the photos and the letter folded up and in a sealed envelope with Sam’s name on it, before he hears Castiel talking to Sam down the hall.  He sneaks to his door and opens it quietly, padding down the corridor until he’s just out of the main room. 

“And that’ll just have to be what works. It’s my only hope, Cas, otherwise I’ll lose him forever,” Sam says, sounding like he’s holding back tears.

“I know, Sam, I know it is. And Dean does too, since he is listening,” Castiel says.

“Thanks a lot, Cas. What, not gonna read me the riot act for eavesdroppin’?” Dean says, smirking at Sam.

Sam just tilts his head and looks closely at Dean’s face. “You’ve been crying, are you all right?”

“What? No, just got some dust in my eyes from packing up in my room.”

Sam rolls his eyes and makes a scoffing noise. He turns back to Castiel. “Thanks for bringing me back there to get it. Can you keep him out of my hair until I’m done?”

“Why would Dean be in your hair, Sam?” Castiel asks, genuinely confused.

“He means he wants you to keep me away from him while he does whatever sneaky thing he’s up to. C’mon, Cas, you can help me finish packing,” Dean says, motioning Castiel to follow him to his room.  He notices the strange look of longing Sam gives him as they leave.

“Give me the skinny, dude. What’s he gonna try? Tell me it’s not some kinda dark magic. You wouldn’t help him with that, right?” Dean asks.

“No, Dean, I have promised Sam that I will not tell you. Please do not ask me to break that promise. But it is not dark magic, not the kind you are thinking of, at least.”

“Think it’ll work, whatever it is?” Dean asks.

“No. It is unlikely to effect much change at all.”

“So, you’re humoring him, just like I am.”

“No, Dean, I am supporting him, like a friend is supposed to.”

“Touchy, touchy. Okay, fine. Well, so tell me this. Do you think Sam would want the Impala if I left him the keys when I leave? We have so many cars in the garage here, I was thinking of taking that sweet red convertible,” Dean says.

“You have no conception of what your leaving will do to Sam. It is just as he says, you do not understand it. No car, not even the Impala, will make up for your absence in his life, Dean,” Castiel says, shaking his head in what looks like some level of disgust.

“All right, all right, I’ll take Baby myself then, if you think he won’t appreciate it. And by the way, I do get it, how hard it’ll be for him. But he’ll have you, right?” Dean asks, sounding too young and hopeful even to his own ears.

“Yes, Dean. I will attend to Sam. He has already tasked me with keeping track of you, and for that I will need to remove the sigils from your ribs. It will be much more painful than when I incised them originally,” Castiel says, raising his right palm towards Dean.

“Wait, I…what?” Dean collapses to his bed, yanking up the shirt sleeve that covers the Mark.  His arm is unblemished, except for a few of the usual hunting scars. Nothing showing that the Mark of Cain had ever been there.  “What the hell? Sam!” Dean yells, leaping up from the bed and bursting out through the door. “Sam, where are you? It’s gone!”

~~~~


	6. Chapter 6

“He’ll be down in the dungeon, Dean,” Castiel says from behind him.  Dean takes off running, pelting down the hallways and stairs bursting through the filing room to his brother’s body, limp and deathly still on the floor in the middle of the devil’s trap. Dean is at his side and has Sam scooped up into his arms in seconds, feeling for a pulse. “Cas, he’s not…he’s not breathing; his heart isn’t going. Help him!”

Castiel strides into the room and places two fingers onto Sam’s forehead. Sam gasps and goes limp again in Dean’s arms and Dean feels for a pulse. “Got it. He’s got a pulse again. Thanks, dude.”

“Sam, come back. Whatever you did, it worked. It’s gone, Sam, it’s fucking gone,” Dean says, brushing the hair off of Sam’s face.  Sam’s eyes finally open after a few minutes of Dean pleading and rocking him. He stares at Dean like he doesn’t recognize him for a long moment, which scares the shit out of Dean.  “Sam, it’s me. It’s Dean. You did it, Sam. The Mark’s gone,” Dean says all in a rush.  Sam shakes his head weakly and looks over at Castiel.

“Thank you,” Sam says in a quiet voice.

“I am glad that the Lion’s Mane worked this time, I’ll leave you two for now,” Castiel says, exiting quickly through the passageway.

“So you did the Lion’s Mane, huh? You must have picked a better spot than I did, since it worked,” Dean says. “Gonna tell me, or do I have to try and guess?”

“I’ll tell you. But you probably won’t believe me.  Can you feel it, Dean?  I can feel both of the ways it all happened,” Sam says, sounding a little in awe.

“Yeah, now that you point it out, I can. That’s pretty weird. Like that time with the Titanic when Cas made sure we remembered.”

“Exactly. We’ve got both of the timelines in our memories. So you can remember both having the Mark, and not having it, right?”

“Yeah, and dying by Meta-douche stabbing me, and watching Gadreel take him out. Guess which one I prefer?”

“Me too. C'mon, help me up,” Sam says, trying to sit up on his own and being unable to.  It’s a little frightening how weak he is.

“Whoa there, Sasquatch, let me hold you up. We’ll get back upstairs, okay? Let you lie down for a while.”

“Let me see it. Please, I gotta see it, Dean,” Sam says, panting with the effort into the side of Dean’s neck.

“See what? Oh, my arm. Yeah, of course,” Dean pushes up his sleeve over the crook of his elbow and holds out the blankness of his forearm for Sam to look at.  Sam grips his wrist and pulls it up to his mouth, kissing at the unblemished skin.

“It’s really gone. I mean, in a way, it was never there. I can’t believe it worked,” Sam says in a mumble against Dean’s skin, unbelieving even though his lips are still on the evidence of his success.

“This gonna be a new fetish of yours or somethin’?” Dean teases, pulling Sam along the hallway towards the stairs.

“Possibly. That and making you call me Sammy at every opportunity,” Sam says with a laugh.  Dean joins him as they reach his bedroom door.

“Hey! What are you guys laughing at in the middle of the night? Some of us are trying to get some sleep,” a voice says from around the hallway corner.

The brothers look at each other in surprise. “Kevin!” they yell in unison, rushing around the corner to see their friend standing before them in rumpled pajamas and more rumpled bed hair.

“You….you’re alive,” Dean says, instantly regretting how stupid this must sound to a Kevin who has never died as far as he knows.

“Yeah,…uh, last time I checked, still breathing. Thanks though, I guess. I’m going back to bed. ‘night,” Kevin says in sleepy confusion. He’s stopped by being completely enveloped in Sam’s arms, holding him to his chest in an awkward hug.  “Sam…hey…what’s wrong?” Kevin asks, when he hears Sam choke back a sob.

“He’s just…we’ll explain it all tomorrow, okay? G‘night, Kev,” Dean says, prying Sam’s arms off of Kevin and leading him back to his room.  Kevin watches them leave and shakes his head, muttering _Winchesters, I’ll never figure these guys out_.

Once they’re back in Dean’s room with the door closed, Dean finally asks, “So, why did it work for you? Was it your powers, or did you just pick a better place to try to change stuff?”

“Listen, about my 'powers” Sam makes sarcastic air quotes. “I’m not sure how that even happened, or if I could ever do it again. I mean, I think it’s there all the time, but it’s not something I can consciously tap into. So, no, not as far as I know, not related to my powers.”

“So where did you go in the past?” Dean asks.

“I…uh went back to the first conversation where I told you anything about Amelia. And I told you all of it, how bad it got for me, when I thought you were dead.  How I’d almost ended things. My guess was that it would be a small enough change that it would be allowed to happen and that it would change all that followed, because you’d know me better.”

“And so I wouldn’t be such a giant douchewheel to you about not looking for me in Purgatory. That was great thinking, Sammy. I guess that was how I managed to tell you through code what was going on with Gadreel.”

Sam is so proud of himself that he doesn’t flinch at the nickname, and he’s even happier when he sees the grin that Dean gives him.

“Now that you mention it, that was where my 'powers” came in handy. I don’t think I’d have been able to kick him out of my body without using them, since he hadn’t healed me all that much yet.”

“I still can’t believe Kevin, though. Just poof! He’s back, and never was gone. What a trip! Wonder if he’ll believe us?”

“We’ll have to write it all down for him, so he can add it to the Winchester Gospels as an addendum,” Sam jokes.

“It’s really gone. I can’t believe it,” Dean says, sinking down beside Sam on the bed.  Sam strokes his blank forearm and Dean shivers, remembering how that used to feel when the Mark was there.

“So, you gonna unpack or what?” Sam asks as he looks around Dean’s room. It looks so strange without any of his stuff spread around.

“Yeah, later. Think we need to have some make-up sex,” Dean says.

“Oh, really?” Sam asks in a murmur that he must know is sexier than anything Dean’s ever heard. And given the look on the little shit’s face, he knows exactly what his words are doing.

“Yeah, really. Get undressed. Now,” Dean says, trying to take back control, and finally getting to let himself, because he doesn’t have to worry about the Mark taking over and hurting Sam somehow.

Sam grins and pulls Dean down on top of him, kissing him thoroughly. Dean pulls back to catch his breath for a moment, breathing his brother’s scent in deeply.  He holds the side of Sam’s face and just looks at him, at his hazel eyes going dark with need. “You did it, Sammy. I’d given up hoping, and you fuckin’ did it.”

“Dean, I need you,” Sam says against his lips, kissing him with wild passion.

There’s a flurry of clothes being removed and lube being located in Dean’s packed duffel bags.  Finally Sam’s lying there, spread out and waiting, cock jutting and ready, and all Dean can do is stand there and drool looking at him. “God, look at you,” he says, rubbing the lube to warm it.

Sam’s eyes close briefly at the praise and open with renewed lust. “Look at yourself, baby. C’mon already,” Sam says in a low purr.

Dean kneels onto the bed and leans to kiss his brother gently, but Sam holds his head and doesn’t let go, ravaging his mouth to show his need.  He finally breaks away and kisses his way down Sam’s torso, licking around each nipple and the tattoo that is back and was never gone.

“It’s here, it was always still here, but it was gone and you had that scar, and you never got it replaced, but here it is,” Dean says in wonder.

Sam’s hand reaches up to rest over Dean’s tattoo, “You never said anything about it before.”

“I’m sorry, I should have…should have made you go get another one, or something,” Dean says in a rush, sitting back on his heels and looking ashamed.

“Hey. Yeah. You should have. But I’m over it, no more sorries tonight, please. I need you, Dean. **N** **ow** ,” Sam says with a slight ring resonating around the ‘now.’

Dean’s eyebrows raise as he looks at Sam, realizing that everything is maybe mostly fixed between them, and his brother has some powers that they’ll have to figure out. But he puts that out of his mind, to be fussed over later. Sam’s insistence on now isn’t something he really needs to be commanded to do.  He bends and nips at the tender skin on the inside of Sam’s hipbone. Sam yelps in surprise and Dean smiles, knows he’s got him right where he wants him.

“Need you too, you know,” Dean says, breathing hot and heavy along Sam’s length.

Sam tosses his head on the pillow and groans in answer.

“Never stopped…always wanted this,” Dean says, blowing steadily on the tip of Sam’s cock.

Sam nearly squeaks in frustration, “Stop teasin’. C’mon, Dean.”

Dean chuckles and takes the rosy head between his lips, swirling his tongue around and under, dipping into the slit. He moans at the familiar flavor he’s missed. “Taste so good, Sammy.”  After a few bobs of his head up and down, he pulls off and begins kissing and licking his way down behind Sam’s balls. He carefully sucks each one, reveling in the taste, and flicks his tongue on the sensitive spot right behind them.

Spreading his legs wider and pulling them up so Dean has room, Sam moans and slurs Dean’s name and several insistent incomprehensible words when Dean’s tongue begins licking at his hole.  He gets louder and less coherent the more Dean licks and pushes his tongue inside. Finally, lubed fingers replace his tongue and begin working in and out of him in a familiar motion. “Missed that, huh, baby?” Dean purrs, kissing at the stretched rim where his fingers are moving in and out.

No answer is forthcoming from Sam, just some noise that vaguely sounds like begging. He feels Sam’s hands on his head pulling at him, insisting that he come back up and kiss him. They groan into the kiss, reveling at the flavor of all of Sam in their mouths combing with the taste of them together once again after much too long.  During the kiss, Dean begins pushing into Sam slowly, much more slowly than he usually does. It’s been so long. He doesn’t want to hurt Sam. And he wants to remember this, what feels like a homecoming.  Finally he’s all the way inside, deep inside Sam, where they’re connected, at the root and basis of them. Sam holds his head between his two giant hands and says, “I told you, it couldn’t have you. You’re mine, Dean. **M** **ine** .”  The last _mine_ rings and shimmers in Dean’s ears and heart, filling him up with the fullness he’s been missing in the Sam-shaped part of his soul. He feels his brother moving in there for good and forever.

Dean pushes in and out of Sam in a slow rhythm that’s making both of them whine a little in the back of their throats, the waiting, the wanting for completion pushing them both to speed up.  He finally pushes himself up and reaches one hand down to stroke Sam’s cock in time with their movements. Sam tips his head back, closing his eyes and straining to hold back.

“Come for me, Sammy,” Dean says in the voice of command that he saves for when it matters most. Times like now.

Sam shouts out a loud noise that sounds like yes and fuck and Dean all at once as he comes hard between them, tightening up all around Dean, holding him even closer and deeper inside.  Dean can barely move, but he feels Sam pulse and clench at him, pulling him over to meet Sam in long-awaited bliss.  He collapses on Sam, and doesn’t move for a long time, feeling his warm come all around him, inside of Sam where it belongs. 

Time passes and they hold each other, together and finally safe, and one. But Sam needs to breathe, so he wriggles enough to dislodge a now-softened Dean and rolls him gently to the side. He gets up slowly and steps to the sink to wet one of their t-shirts to clean up with.  When he turns to come back to bed, he sees Dean staring at him like he’s never seen him before.

“What’s wrong, Dean?” he asks, stepping quickly back to the bed.

“Sorry. Nothin’s wrong. Just thought I’d never see you like this again,” Dean admits, his heart so open and raw like everything’s just been taken out and put back in again. Sam’s fixed him and sewn him up like he always does.  “Thanks, for fixin’ me, Sammy,” he says.

Sam sits down next to Dean’s hip and washes him gently and carefully. He holds Dean’s soft cock in his hand, just holds it gently, possessively.  “You didn’t need fixing, Dean, _we_ did. And you’re welcome,” Sam says.

Dean marvels at his brother’s words, mouth hanging open unattractively as he thinks about what Sam means. Then he smiles slowly, accepting Sam’s meaning, knowing that everything’s been rearranged in the best sort of way possible.  Sam throws the shirt towards the sink and curls up next to him, pulling the blankets up and resting his head on Dean’s shoulder.

“Always thought we deserved a do-over,” he murmurs into Sam’s hair as they both drift off to sleep.

_~The End~_


End file.
